


All the Way to the Bone

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [5]
Category: Justified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan decides to chase a ghost hidden in the Dixie Mafia and Tim gets dragged along in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Spring had come early to Kentucky, so it made sense somehow that summer would, too. It was late May and the temperature was already hovering at 80° and it was muggy. Art had been enjoying the unseasonably warm weather, his knees ached less, and the unusually quiet office, Raylan and Tim were both away. It seemed a bad omen to Art that the humidity hit, and with it the achy knees, right when Raylan and Tim reappeared. He braced himself for the storm to follow.

Raylan had been working in Miami for the past three weeks, helping his old boss, Chief Deputy Dan Grant, wrap up an investigation. The case was connected with the Miami Cartel and Raylan had been instrumental from the beginning in the hunt for a thug wanted on two federal murder warrants. His knowledge of the cast of players was appreciated by the Miami AUSA in charge and though Raylan would rather have been there when the fugitive was cornered and arrested, the closure was still satisfying. He returned a little tan and with a little lightness in his step.

Tim had been at Camp Beauregard in Louisiana for some routine SOG training. The warm weather had brought out all kinds of bugs, including a flu bug, and they had to shut the training down early sending the entire team home sick. Tim, hacking and feverish, had offered to come in but Art told him he'd put him down like a rabid dog if he dared step into the courthouse with his imported bayou germs. He had finally crawled in the following week, a little lighter in his step, too, having dropped ten pounds that he couldn't afford to lose.

This was the first day Raylan and Tim were both present in the office again and Rachel noted, wisely not out loud, that Art seemed more cheerful having his boys back. He had missed the banter.

"Does it count as incest?" Raylan pondered aloud. "I mean, they've pretty much adopted him and he's sleeping with their daughter."

"Don't know why you're asking us, Raylan. You're the one from Harlan. That'd make you the resident expert on the subject," Art commented.

Raylan gave his boss an evil look which Art called with one of his own and raised with an enthusiastic raspberry.

"I think he's too old for legal adoption," piped in Rachel. "Once you're over eighteen, the courts wouldn't recognize it, so that would rule out incest."

"I wish you all would stop talking about me like I'm not sitting right here. I'm starting to get a complex and my headache's making an encore," Tim complained. He was typing at his desk with his right hand, one key stroke at a time, and propping his head tiredly on his left, trying to catch up on days of missed work. "And since when did bringing someone soup count as part of a legal adoption process?"

"As a father of daughters, I should warn you, Tim, I'd be suspicious of their motives," said Art. "Maybe they're working to get you so in debt you'll _have_ to take her off their hands. Like an indentured servant, or maybe more like a purchase agreement."

"It's soup, Art," Tim repeated.

"You know, it's a good plan," Art mused. "I wish I'd thought of it. I might have gotten rid of my girls sooner."

"I should have called in sick again today," Tim groaned. He rubbed both hands on his temples, stood up and glared at them all. "It's almost five, I'm leaving."

He marched toward the office doors but Art stuck out an arm and stopped him.

"Not so fast. I didn't come all the way out here from my office just to tease you about your girlfriend's mother bringing you soup," said Art. "Though, I have to ask, did she tuck you in at nap time?"

Rachel snorted.

"I'm gone," Tim stated, stepping around a giggling Art.

"No, wait, Tim," Art called him back. "Seriously, I need to talk to you and Raylan. Someone has to go to San Diego tomorrow. Prisoner transport."

"Send him," Raylan and Tim replied, pointing at each other.

"Actually, you're both going. Won't that be fun?"

"Whoa, why both of us?" Raylan asked. "Are we escorting Hannibal Lector?"

"No, more exciting," Art replied, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm. "A couple of tech nerds from a firm in California. They were served subpoenas and decided to vacation in Kentucky instead of showing up at court."

"What were the subpoenas for?" Tim asked.

"They're supposed to provide evidence in a fraud case. Some company embezzling funds," Art explained. "These highly-educated young men decided to go drinking when they got to Lexington. Sat at a bar and tried to impress some girls by announcing loudly how clever they were for avoiding their court appearance. An off-duty local called it in."

"So now we have to escort them back, at taxpayers' expense," said Rachel. "Unbelievable."

"Can't we just put them in a box and mail them?" suggested Tim.

"I don't think that's regulation," Art replied, "but I'll put in a call and ask."

"We could put them in separate boxes," Raylan offered.

"Two prisoners, two Marshals," Art said, finishing the conversation. "Pick them up at the Main Street lockup. Flight leaves at 10:45am tomorrow. I'll leave you two to work out the details." He handed a folder to each.

"I got the impression you were happy to have us back, Art," Raylan said, sounding hurt. "And now, you're shipping us off again."

"I kind of enjoyed missing you, Raylan. It was bittersweet."

* * *

Halfway to San Diego, it became clear to Raylan that Tim wasn't doing so well. He had turned the color of the overhead luggage bins, a kind of sickly grey-green. Raylan's prisoner had an unhealthy pallor as well, but for different reasons. He was afraid: afraid of the Marshals, afraid of flying, afraid of going to prison. He had a lot to be afraid of. Tim's prisoner was working hard at hiding his fear by keeping up a monologue at a speed that was going to get it to San Diego before the jet.

Raylan finally leaned over and suggested that he trade seats to give Tim a break from the steady aural barrage. Tim weakly accepted and slid carefully across the aisle.

There are regulations for a prisoner transport on a commercial airline, including being first to plane and last to deplane, keeping the prisoner's hands restrained, usually with handcuffs concealed by a jacket, keeping firearms concealed as well so as not to panic the public, and seating the prisoner in the window seat in the back row with the Marshal in the aisle seat, blocking him from view, blocking his escape and giving the pair convenient access to the bathroom facilities.

Tim was particularly grateful for the last part because the movement of switching seats did him in. With a quick hand signal to Raylan he darted for the bathroom. Raylan took one look at his prisoner, still, ghostly white and staring blankly at the seat back, and decided he wasn't a threat. He moved over into Tim's seat beside the other prisoner and patiently sat listening to his ranting.

"I know my rights. I mean, I'm not stupid, you know? I don't have to testify against my own company. It's incorporated, so that means its arms-length, I'm untouchable. I am going to so sue somebody's ass. Someone's going down for this, out-of-a-job, down so low they'll never see sunshine again."

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence. Raylan swung his fist and connected solidly with the prisoner's nose. His head hit the seat back then bounced forward, but not before Raylan quickly reached over and opened the latch on the tray, letting it fall. The prisoner pulled up his hands to cover his nose and jammed the tray into it instead.

The flight attendant happened by at that moment and saw the tray slam into the man's face. She brought her hands up and covered her mouth, her expression a mix of surprise and sympathy.

Raylan admired his work then turned to the attendant, feigning concern.

"Would you mind, ma'am, getting him a rag or some napkins," he suggested. "I told him to leave the tray alone." He shrugged helplessly.

"Oh dear," she exclaimed when the blood started flowing. She hurried off down the aisle.

"Could you bring us a couple of ginger ales on the way?" Raylan called after her.

She returned quickly with two cold cans of pop, a bag of ice, and a roll of paper towels. Tim came out of the bathroom behind her, looking a little steadier. He squeezed past her into Raylan's old seat and watched curiously while the flight attendant helped the prisoner position the ice pack on his nose. He raised an eyebrow at Raylan and grinned in appreciation.

"Feeling better?" Raylan asked, passing him a can of ginger ale.

"Enormously," Tim smiled. He opened the can and settled in for the remainder of the flight.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Raylan and Tim signed over their prisoners to a fellow Marshal at the courthouse in San Diego and went for lunch. There wasn't time for much else before their flight home so they agreed to head back to the airport bar for a drink. Raylan asked Tim to drive and he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He pulled out a city map from the glove compartment and worked for a few minutes trying to fold it into a manageable size with the right city sector on top.

Tim watched the wrestling match beside him while he waited for the light to change. "Why don't you use the map function on your phone," he suggested dryly.

Raylan rolled his eyes up to the brim of his hat and reached for his cell, stuffing the map carelessly back into the compartment. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and looked up the address he had written on it.

Tim was feeling better and with no prisoners to watch and nothing to think about but driving and a nice cold beer at the bar, he was lulled into complacency and followed Raylan's directions without thinking. But when they ended up on the freeway heading north into La Jolla, he started paying attention again. He kept shooting questioning glances over at Raylan.

"I'm pretty sure the airport's the other way," Tim finally said, hitching a thumb toward the back window and watching a jet in the rearview mirror gaining altitude between the buildings downtown.

Raylan didn't respond.

Tim resigned himself to being a participant in whatever Raylan was up to and drove them farther and farther north, following his partner's directions, until they were cruising slowly around an exclusive enclave of gated homes.

"House hunting?" Tim asked.

Raylan just squinted at the addresses.

"I don't think a swimming pool and a private tennis court is going to win her back," Tim said, purposely poking a sore spot, hoping to get a reaction.

"What do you know about women?" Raylan asked, rising to the bait.

"Less than you even, and let me tell you, that's saying something," Tim responded.

Raylan finally rewarded Tim's efforts with a glare but that was all because at that moment he spotted the address he was looking for.

"Pull over here," he directed.

"Why?" Tim asked suspiciously, but did it anyway.

"Stay put, this won't take a minute," Raylan answered distractedly, unfolding himself from the car.

He shut the door, leaving Tim sitting alone. Tim sighed loudly, crossed his arms over the steering wheel and watched Raylan walk up the street to a gated private entranceway and press the intercom button. Two men approached the gate from the other side. Tim could see them well enough and pegged them for ex-military working private security, heavily armed, heavily muscled, confident, steroid slammers for sure and dressed in an appropriately serious shade of black with just a hint of black for contrast.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim swore at the empty car, dropped his chin on his arms and yawned.

Raylan was trying to get some cooperation from the two men and was obviously being stone-walled. Tim eventually got out of the car, jammed his hands in his pockets and wandered over.

"Hey," he greeted them casually. He was grateful for the shade from the palms lining the inside of the high wall that surrounded the property and suspected the guards were, too. "Bit warm for black."

They didn't even acknowledge his presence. He leaned against the gate, studying them for a minute then turned his attention to Raylan.

"So, what's this about?"

"I just want a friendly word with the owner," Raylan said evasively.

"You going to make him an offer on the house?"

"If I like the pool," Raylan replied, holding one of the bars on the gate and peering through it at the landscaped driveway. "I'm fussy about the pool. I don't like too much of that tiki shit. I'm not fond of monograms, either. Saw too much of that in Miami."

Tim looked back at the security guards. "Any chance we could convince you to open the gate and let us in?"

The larger of the two shook his head.

"Airport? Beer?" Tim reminded Raylan, motioning with his head over to the car, a drop of desperation in his voice.

Raylan let out a frustrated breath, grabbed a bar in each hand and stared down at the ground. He looked like a jailbird, woeful and on the wrong side of the gate.

Tim eyed the two security guards. He hated pulling the brotherhood of war bit but they were going to miss their flight if this took too long and he liked his own bed and especially the girl who was waiting for him in it.

"Special Forces or Marines?" he ventured.

"What's it to you?" the larger of the two responded.

"I have a lot of buddies in private security. Thought you might know some of them."

The guard looked Tim over, sizing him up, then putting him down as a wannabe.

"Marine, SEAL," the fellow replied tersely, pointing first at the smaller man, then at himself, obviously expecting to impress the Marshal. "You serve?"

"Ranger."

"Hooah," the SEAL responded, his face armor finally cracking a little.

"Hooah," Tim hailed back, trying to sound enthusiastic. "SEAL, huh? You know Commander Stover?"

"Yeah, good man. Good officer. How do you know him?"

"The bastard pulled me out of my cot at o-dark-hundred on a shitty base south of Kabul. His sniper was down with something nasty, so I got volun _told_ to fill in for him," Tim explained. "He dragged my ass somewhere stupid and back." He shook his head and smiled at the memory. "That was six of the hairiest hours I ever spent in Afghanistan."

"Oh shit!" the SEAL exclaimed, his face loosening right up into a full ear-to-ear grin. "You're that Ranger sniper that got shot. I heard the story from the medic on that team. He said he was slipping around in the blood on the helo deck during the exfil. I think Stover still feels bad about it, dragging you into that."

"Wasn't his fault. Bad intel. It was supposed to be a quiet village and we walked into a shit storm," Tim said, giving him a look heavy with disgust. "Two truckloads of armed Taliban pulled up right after the team went in."

"All this modern technology is supposed to get us better intel," the Marine piped up, warming to the conversation and the Marshal. "But the only thing that's changed is they get the bad intel to you quicker."

Tim and the SEAL nodded in agreement, the bond now solidified.

Taking a deep breath, Tim turned to the SEAL. "Look, is there any way we could get in to see the owner? We're here from Kentucky. Just want to ask him a question or two," he entreated, turning to look at Raylan for confirmation and raising his eyebrows in collusion.

Raylan, who had been listening carefully to the exchange for reasons both professional and personal, pushed his hat back and smiled innocently on cue.

"We've got a plane to catch," Tim added, more for Raylan than the guards. "We don't want to miss it, so we won't be long."

The SEAL chewed on his lip and looked over at the Marine.

"Yo, Devil Dog, what do you think?"

The Marine shrugged his indifference.

"Personally, I don't think we're paid enough to piss off the law. Since you gentlemen are Federal Marshals and everything, I think we should be courteous. If _he_ gives us any trouble," he said to the Marine, jerking his thumb in the direction of the house and the owner, "I'll make sure it's my ass not yours."

He turned to Tim and added in a conspiratorial tone, "Today's my last day anyway. I hate this job. I've been invited to an interview with DynCorp. I'm planning to go overseas and earn some big money. They're always looking for hired guns in the Sandbox."

Tim agreed that was good idea and kept the SEAL talking about his career hopes while the Marine radioed ahead to the house to let them know to expect company. They opened a smaller gate on the side to let them in and led them up the driveway.

The guards turned the Marshals over to a servant at the door of the house and headed back to their posts. Before he left, the SEAL clapped Tim on the shoulder, knocking him off balance.

"I'm heading over to the base tomorrow. If I see Stover, I'll give him your regards," he laughed.

Tim grinned. "Ask him if he got the blood-stain out of his favorite combat T."

"Wasn't he wearing black?"

"He complained anyway."

Tim could hear the Navy SEAL chuckling as he walked out of sight, telling the tale to the Marine.

The Marshals were escorted in and told to wait in the front hall. The echoing of Raylan's boots off the marble floors added to the grandeur of the space and he finally stopped pacing to lessen the effect. Tim found a column to lean on.

They waited in silence for a few minutes then Raylan and his audio shadows clomped over closer to Tim. Raylan took off his hat and looked up to the second floor balcony, turning in a circle to admire the architecture. He looked over at his partner and whistled softly, acknowledging the wealth. Tim just scowled and checked his watch impatiently.

"So you were wounded in Afghanistan?" Raylan pried, passing the time.

"It wasn't anything much. It just bled a lot. Even I laughed when the medic landed on his ass."

"You were probably hysterical and in shock," Raylan pointed out.

Tim didn't respond, he just deliberately changed the subject. "So who is this guy anyway?"

"An investment counselor."

Tim took that to mean 'money launderer' and nodded in understanding. "And your interest in him is what?"

Before Raylan could answer, the subject of their conversation walked out of a doorway on the second floor and started a confident stroll down the curved staircase. He was a small, round man, wrapped in a pool robe. His sandals flapped on each step, undermining his attempt to project an air of superiority.

"I hope for your sake, you gentlemen have a warrant," he said as he continued his slow, arrogant pace.

When he was four steps from the bottom he finally graced the Marshals with a disdainful look. The moment his eyes landed on Raylan and the cowboy hat, his bravado made a running retreat, his knees gave out and he slumped down on the steps, paralyzed with fear.

"Oh God," he moaned, his gaze fixated on the hat. "You're here to kill me."

The Marshals exchanged an amused look.

"You just have this effect on people," Tim said, gesturing over to the collapsed figure. "You're like the Grim Reaper."

Raylan raised his eyebrows at Tim and mouthed, _What the hell?_ He then sauntered over to the staircase.

"Now, now, Mr. Welland, pull yourself together. I'm not here to kill you," Raylan said soothingly. He propped one foot on the bottom step and leaned on the post. "I just want to talk to you."

"You killed Tommy Bucks," the man spluttered.

"That I did, but he drew on me," Raylan explained. "I had no choice. You're not going to draw on me, are you, Mr. Welland?"

He shook his head.

"Then we don't have a problem," Raylan summed up.

He looked back at Tim and rolled his eyes. Tim smirked.

"I'm Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens," he said, trying to be civil.

"I know who you are," the man squeaked.

"Now, don't be impolite. Let me finish the introductions," Raylan scolded. "The fellow holding up the column behind me is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. Deputy Gutterson, this is Paul Welland, money launderer to the stars, the man who provided financing at the supply end of Tommy Bucks's gunrunning business."

Tim nodded his head once, finally getting a glimpse into why he was standing in a mansion in La Jolla rather than enjoying a beer in a cool lounge at the San Diego airport.

"Mr. Welland," Raylan continued then stopped and bent down a little closer to him. "Can I call you Paul?"

Welland nodded.

"Alright then, Paul, I have only one question for you and then I'll be on my way. Remember that deal that went bad in Miami several years ago? Tommy Bucks was running it. You know, the one where the funds went missing. Whose money was it?"

Paul Welland looked up, a flash of fear skittering across his features. "Gio Reyes's," he replied, raising his voice at the end as if he doubted his own answer.

"Uh-uh, no," Raylan corrected him, wagging his finger. "Not the purchaser, the supplier. Whose money were _you_ handling? Who do you work for?"

Welland's shoulders sagged in defeat. He looked up and Raylan could see he was terrified and confused.

"Jeremy Liles," he whispered. "The same as you."

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"We're going to miss the flight. If we're lucky, there'll be a later one we can catch," Tim stated, staring sullenly out the windshield at the back of a transport.

They were stuck sitting in a long line of late afternoon traffic on the freeway heading to the airport. Raylan had been looking out the window for the last hour, lost in thought. It was clear to Tim that he wasn't satisfied with the interview he'd had with Paul Welland and he'd retreated into a funk during the drive back into town. Tim had left him to it for the first while, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.

"Hey, Raylan, here's an idea. What do you say you tell me what the hell that was all about? It'd be a great way to pass the time," Tim said, looking over at him hopefully.

Raylan shifted in his seat when Tim started talking and glanced over at the younger Marshal.

"Shit, Tim, I'm sorry I made you miss the flight," he said sincerely.

"That's okay, if it was worth it. Was it worth it? Make you feel any better, whatever that was?"

"No." Raylan pulled at his ear and went back to looking out the window.

"Well, since you're a lost cause, why don't you make me feel better and tell me who Jeremy Liles is?"

They crawled an entire car length forward and stopped. And Raylan kept his thoughts to himself.

Tim rolled his shoulders and moved his head side to side until his neck cracked then settled into a game of twenty questions. He'd become rather good at it since Raylan moved to the Lexington office.

"Animal?" he started.

"What?" Raylan responded, turning his head to look at him.

"Okay. Vegetable?"

"Pardon me?"

"Not a vegetable. Mineral?" he tried.

"Tim, what are you on about?" Raylan asked impatiently.

"I'm just trying to figure this whole business out," he replied. "Is he bigger than a bread box?"

"You're starting to sound like an idiot," Raylan responded.

"I'm starting to feel like one. I just let you drag me across San Diego and talk our way, probably illegally, into some guy's house and harass him. And now I'm missing my early flight home to my girl to pamper some…what exactly...some itch you've got? What is wrong with me?" He turned, distressed, to face Raylan. "Can you please put a spin on this so I don't feel so bad about myself?"

"You can be incredibly annoying."

"Tell me what this is all about and I'll magically stop."

Raylan sighed and turned his attention once again to the scenery outside. Tim cranked the steering wheel to the right and accelerated, maneuvering the car between the honking, disgruntled nine-to-fivers, and pulling up near the guard rail. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car. Someone rolled down their window and started yelling obscenities at them. Tim ignored him and marched around to Raylan's side and hauled the door open.

"Out," he ordered.

"What is your problem?" Raylan demanded, looking up at him in annoyance.

"I hate being ignored. So I either get to leave you here to walk home, or you tell me what this detour's all about, or I pound the shit out of you. I don't care which. Any of the three would be satisfying for me right now."

Raylan stood up and faced him. "You couldn't take me."

"Why, 'cause you're bigger than me? Stop kidding yourself, Raylan. I don't do 'bar fight'."

The two Marshals stared each other down, both knowing that it would never degrade into a brawl.

"Get a room!" someone else yelled from their car.

"Or we could just beat the living shit out that punk. Work off our frustrations," Raylan suggested as a peace offering.

Tim followed the car with his eyes for a moment. "I like that idea," he agreed.

"Look, Tim, truth is, I don't know anything about Liles and it's pissing me off," Raylan confessed. "I was hoping to get more out of Welland."

Tim crossed his arms and sat on the guard rail, more tired than angry. "Welland seemed pretty edgy," he commented.

"He did, didn't he?" Raylan said thoughtfully. He leaned against the car and stared at his boots.

"Why was he so afraid of you?"

"I've been wondering that myself."

"It's been, what, four years since you shot Tommy Bucks? Does he think you did it under orders from this Liles fellow?"

Raylan looked over at Tim thoughtfully. "Sure seems like it, doesn't it?"

"Why would he think that?"

Raylan shrugged. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair and looked down the long line of traffic.

"You want me to call my friend at the FBI, see what they got on Liles and Welland?" Tim offered.

Raylan squinted over at him. "Maybe," he said. "Come on. Let's get to the airport and I'll buy you a beer and tell you what I do know. It won't take long. Then you can tell me a story about getting dragged out of your cot by a Navy SEAL Commander."

"It's not that interesting a story."

"Big and brawny back at the house thought it was," Raylan teased.

"Well, it's hardly a fair negotiation. I didn't drag your ass through rush hour traffic in downtown Kabul."

"They have rush hour there?" Raylan asked, interested.

"It's always rush hour there, especially if somebody starts shooting."

Another commuter, who had stopped level with them in the traffic, flipped Tim the finger for blocking the lane. Tim calmly lifted his shirt a bit so the driver could see his Glock. The driver lurched his car forward, trying to put some distance between himself and the Marshals, and almost rear ended the bus in front of him.

* * *

Tim and Raylan sat nursing a beer each in the airport's bar, knowing they couldn't get away with more and arrive at the gate armed. The consequences of drinking while carrying a firearm on a commercial flight were probably more severe than drinking and actually piloting the plane. Neither of them felt that a few rounds interfered with their ability to shoot, but maybe that was why the Marshals Service had that particular regulation.

"Do you remember a couple of years ago, a fugitive that Rachel and I tracked down in Los Angeles?" Raylan asked Tim. "A former accountant for the Miami cartel, name of Roland Pike?"

"The dentist," Tim recalled. "The one the Mexican sniper shot."

"That's the one."

"Wasn't he the guy you were chasing in Nicaragua, too?"

"One and the same," Raylan acknowledged. "He's the itch."

Tim looked at him blankly. "I think you're going to have to give me more than that."

"I liked Rollie Pike," said Raylan. "I can't explain it, but you know how it is. You get good guys and bad guys and sometimes you like the bad guys, doesn't matter what they've done, and sometimes you don't like the good guys, 'cause, well, they're assholes."

"Like Agent Barkley," Tim offered, remembering their last run-in with the FBI.

"A fine example."

"Thank you."

"Rollie didn't deserve to die like that," Raylan said, looking into his beer glass. "Sure, he was a bad guy, working for some bad people, but in the end he was trying to do the right thing. When he was killed running to Mexico, everyone figured it was the Miami cartel, Gio and his thugs, getting even with him for stealing the money."

"But you don't," Tim concluded.

Raylan shook his head.

"Why not?" Tim prodded. "It seems a fair assumption considering how hard Tommy Bucks chased him."

"I have no proof, but it seems unlikely to me that the sniper that killed Rollie was hired by the Miami cartel," Raylan explained. "Gio doesn't have any contact with the Mexicans on the west coast. He did all his business with the Gulfos. He wouldn't mess around on Sinaloa turf. It's just not worth it. He did send one of his best guns to L.A., but I'd already taken care of him and his sidekick before Rollie was shot."

Raylan paused and finished off his beer. Tim waited him out. He wished he could order another round but when the bartender came by he asked for a ginger ale instead, playing it safe with his stomach and his job. Raylan asked for a coffee.

"Tommy Bucks was a gunrunner," Raylan continued. "He facilitated deals. Something he said to me once made me think he did business with the gang in Miami but that his loyalties lay somewhere else. It was just a hunch but I got the impression he wasn't hunting down Rollie for Gio."

"Jeremy Liles," Tim supplied.

Raylan raised his eyebrows and sipped at his coffee.

"So how did you find out about Paul Welland?" Tim asked.

"The name came up in Miami last week," Raylan answered. "The fellow they caught was offering up information to try and work a deal with the DA's office. There was a Fed there who asked me if I'd ever heard Tommy Bucks mention Welland before. I told him no, but it got me thinking and I looked him up. Tracked him to the address here."

"And you had Art believing you didn't want to go to San Diego," Tim said grinning.

"He seemed happier that way," Raylan responded, smiling mischievously. "I hated to rain on his parade."

"Welland must be earning a lot of money to live in a place like that," Tim mused. "He didn't mention that he had any other clients, did he?"

"I've been wondering the same thing. And that means Liles must be doing a good business in the gun trade. Ever even heard the name 'Jeremy Liles' before?" he asked Tim.

Tim shook his head, no.

"Me neither," said Raylan. "Don't you think that's kind of strange?"

The two Marshals were distracted by the baseball game showing on the bar's television. The Padres had the bases loaded in the first inning, but the pitcher either got his act together or got lucky, struck out the next three batters, and the home team left all three runners stranded. The bartender gave them a look of complete disgust when he noticed they were watching.

"You Padres fans?" he asked.

"Not today," Raylan answered.

"Don't blame you," he replied tossing his rag down on the bar in frustration.

Raylan grinned and looked back over at Tim.

"Well, that's everything I know. Now you owe me a story," he prodded.

"Like hell I do."

 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

"Tim," Art yelled from his office, not even bothering to get up.

The command in that one word made Tim jump. He finished up his phone call, cutting off the parole officer he had been chasing all morning and rolled out of his chair. He glanced over at Rachel, hoping for some indication of the weather in Art's office but she just shrugged.

Art was on the phone when Tim reached the door. He stood frozen for a moment trying to decide whether to walk in or wait but then Art waved at him impatiently and pointed imperiously to a chair.

"I'm looking into it right now," Art said, his voice tinged with anger. He paused. "Of course I'm taking it seriously. When I know, you'll know."

He hung up the phone with exaggerated care, took off his glasses, set them gently on his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he sat back and finally gave Tim his attention he appeared calm and Tim felt himself relax a little.

"If parenting has taught me anything," Art started.

_Oh shit_ , thought Tim, tensing again, _what did I do?_

"It's that whatever you do to mitigate behavioral problems, always ends up creating bigger problems. I've been trying to get some cooperation back between you and Raylan, so I send you on a nice outing to San Diego. Seemed like a good idea giving you boys some quality time. But no, somehow it's blossomed into a disaster. Now, what I need to know is just how big is this bigger problem?" Art's voice was illustrating a classic exponential curve of rising intensity over time. "When I look in the rearview mirror, I want to know exactly what it is that's rushing up to bite me in the ass!"

Tim just sat there, staring blankly, clueless.

"And don't look at me like you don't know what the hell I'm talking about."

"Chief," Tim ventured, "I swear I don't know what you're talking about."

Art threw himself back in his chair and stared at him dumbfounded.

"What happened in San Diego?" he demanded.

"Uh, you mean that thing on the flight?" Tim asked, scrambling for a foothold in the conversation. "He, uh, hit his nose on the tray."

"What are you talking about?" The confusion on Art's face was not faked.

Tim paused, his mind racing. _"In_ San Diego?"

"In San Diego."

"What are _you_ talking about?" The confusion on Tim's face was not faked, either.

"Where's Raylan?" Art changed tack, and Tim was swimming.

"Where's Raylan?" he repeated, confused.

"Will you stop repeating everything I say. It's incredibly annoying."

Tim threw his arms up in the air. "He came back with me on the flight. I sat beside him. That's the last I saw him."

"Well I know he came back with you, Tim, he was at the office early this morning and I spoke to him. Where is he now?"

Tim shrugged helplessly. "How am I supposed to know? You know Raylan."

"Maybe it's just as well he's not here," Art said, tapping his fingers on his desk. "It's probably better that you and I handle this for now."

Tim's eyebrows furrowed and he licked his lips nervously. "Handle what?"

"You really don't know?" Art plied, narrowing his eyes at Tim who was shaking his head in bewilderment. "Huh, well, I figured it for bullshit."

Art pursed his lips and rubbed his head then opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. He then opened a second drawer and pulled out his bourbon and two glasses. It was after lunch. He poured out a measure each for himself and Tim and passed one over. Tim watched the ritual in silence, certain that his world was about to collapse around him.

"We need to work on a timeline for yesterday. Everything you and Raylan did, everywhere you went, everyone you spoke to or saw or who would have seen you." Art looked seriously at Tim. "You two are the prime suspects in a murder investigation."

"A murder investigation?" Tim couldn't help himself. The news blindsided him and he reflexively repeated Art's words again. "Whose murder?"

"A fellow named Paul Welland. You ever heard of him?" asked Art.

The look on Tim's face told all.

"Well, best get your poker face on 'cause the Feds are on their way over to talk to you."

* * *

By the time Raylan strolled back in shortly after 5pm, Tim, Art, three FBI agents, including a gleeful Agent Barkley, and Assistant US Attorney Vasquez had been sitting in the conference room for over two hours going over yesterday's events. Tim and Art had positioned themselves on the side of the table with the best view of the office and indicated with subtle head movements and hand signals that Raylan should turn around and make himself scarce.

Raylan obliged.

Agent Barkley was in charge of the interview. He paced up and down behind the table and jabbed a finger in Tim's direction every time he made a point or asked a question. Tim started counting the jabs in the first half hour. He was up to a hundred and thirty-six. It was a game that one of his fellow recruits had started in Basic. Every drill sergeant had a tell, a motion or word they would use when they were angry. The higher the count, the more trouble you were in. Tim had taken the game with him to Ranger school, sniper school and Marshal training. He found it a good way to keep himself from letting his anger get a hold and punching someone, and he definitely felt like punching Agent Barkley just now.

Art had stayed with him through the entire interview, stepping in whenever Barkley started making unfounded accusations. Halfway through the meeting it was clear that Barkley had lost the advantage. Vasquez was beginning to question his points and the other two FBI agents kept wandering out for coffee, looking bored.

"One more time, Deputy Gutterson, why were you and Deputy Givens even at Mr. Welland's home yesterday?" Barkley questioned.

"Agent Barkley," Vasquez interjected, tapping his pen and resting his elbow on the table to hold up his head. "I think we've asked him this already."

"I haven't received a satisfactory answer," Barkley snapped.

"You mean the answer you want to hear," Art said and shook his head. "Deputy Gutterson has already explained that Deputy Givens had a question for Mr. Welland pertaining to a case he's currently working on."

"And he conveniently can't remember which case!"

"Well, it's not my case. I was just along for the ride," Tim explained.

"You were on prisoner transport duty with strict instructions to drop them off and return to the airport," Barkley continued, undeterred.

"I don't recall any strict instructions," Tim said, turning to look at Art for confirmation.

Art shook his head, "No, I'm pretty certain I just told you to take the prisoners to the courthouse. Generally, Agent Barkley, the Deputies are free to fill their time as they wish, within reason, until their flight. I don't run a daycare."

"Harassing, possibly murdering citizens, is that 'within reason'?"

One hundred and fifty, even.

"We just had a question for him," Tim responded calmly. "And then we headed back for our flight."

"Which you missed!" Barkley almost shouted.

One hundred and fifty-three.

"We didn't take into account the traffic. We made the next flight," Tim offered.

"And Welland was fine when you left him," Vasquez said, more as a statement to Barkley than a query to Tim. He seemed impatient with the circular questioning. The group had been through this sequence at least twice already. Vasquez was still stinging from being made to look foolish by Agent Barkley the last time he went after Raylan and he seemed more cautious in this interview about jumping on board to accuse the Marshals.

"I wouldn't say he was fine," Tim corrected. "He was nervous as hell. Both Raylan and I commented on it afterward."

"You're suggesting that he felt threatened by you?" Barkley demanded, leaning in.

"No, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just stating what I saw. The man was obviously nervous."

Another hour later and Vasquez decided that he didn't have enough to start a proceeding. There was no apparent motive and reports started coming in from San Diego confirming each of Tim's statements. Mr. Welland's servants all agreed that he was still breathing after the Marshals left the house, the bartender at the airport lounge confirmed that Raylan and Tim had watched the game from the first inning which started at 7pm, and San Diego Homicide put the time of death around 8pm. Unless there was a forensics' breakthrough, the FBI had nothing to suggest the Marshals had a hand in it.

Barkley and his gang left with the threat of a return visit. Art, Tim and Vasquez watched them go.

"He'd make a good tyrant for some small, fascist country," Vasquez commented.

"I was thinking he'd make a good Feeb," said Art. "Oh, wait a minute, he is one. Excellent career match for his personality."

"I'm picturing him as a range target," Tim added.

Vasquez and Art both threw Tim a worried glance.

"I'm joking," he dead panned.

"Gentlemen," Vasquez said, offering a handshake to each. "It's always entertaining. Now I'm going for a drink." As he opened the door he called back over his shoulder. "I'll probably see you next week."

Tim yawned, rubbed his face roughly with his hands then looked wearily at Art. Art hooked his arm around the back of Tim's neck and steered him into his office. The glasses were still on his desk from earlier, so Art filled them again. The two men tossed back a dose of Marshal-style Zen meditation, collected their things and headed out.

Tim walked home, thinking about Jeremy Liles. He pulled out his cell and called his buddy who worked in the FBI office in Louisville. They chatted and Tim asked the favor and Neil said he'd look into it in the morning.

Miljana, Tim's girlfriend, was curled up in his favorite porch chair again when he arrived home. He was going to have to do something about that, maybe get her a favorite chair of her own. She was sipping a glass of wine and sharing a laugh with a man in a cowboy hat who was occupying the other seat and drinking Tim's beer. He was definitely going to have to do something about that. He considered shooting him, but tossed that idea, deciding instead to get a beer for himself and join them.

"Raylan," he greeted him.

"Someone looks a little grumpy," Raylan said to Miljana.

She stood up, smiling, and Raylan moved his legs to let her past. She waved Tim to his chair, offering to get him some food and a drink. Tim gladly accepted and made himself comfortable.

"Welland's dead," he announced.

Raylan sat up, thinking. "Shit," he concluded with feeling.

"Who's Welland?" Miljana shouted from the kitchen.

"Good ears," Raylan noted.

"A fellow we went to see in San Diego," Tim yelled back.

She reappeared with a beer. "I'm just heating up some stew," she said. "I thought you were escorting prisoners?"

"Next time Art takes a vacation, I'm going to suggest he get you to fill in for him," Tim remarked. "You've got him down pat."

"Well, obviously you were doing something you weren't supposed to," she deduced, "or you wouldn't be giving me snarky answers."

"You're right," Raylan said, "It'd be like he was still in the office."

"How did he die?" she asked.

"Someone shot him in the back of the head, execution style," Tim replied, miming the action.

Miljana grimaced and ducked back into the house. She still couldn't understand how they could speak so calmly about a murder. Tim set his beer down and followed her inside to the kitchen and helped himself to a hug. He grabbed two more bottles of beer to save himself a trip, set them on an old soft chair from the living room and dragged the lot out onto the porch. She beamed at him when she saw what he'd done, handed him his dinner and made herself comfortable.

Tim gave them a comic rendition of the afternoon's events then he and Raylan talked in circles trying to hook a detail out of what they knew, something that might explain why Welland was dead or who Jeremy Liles might be.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

The next morning Art called Raylan and Tim into his office to discuss Paul Welland, a more casual second round, and hopefully a more honest version of events than Tim's account to the FBI. The conversation expanded quickly to include Jeremy Liles, Tommy Bucks and Roland Pike.

"It's funny that the name Jeremy Liles didn't come up yesterday in the interview," Art said looking pointedly at Tim. "Slip your mind?"

"They never asked," Tim shrugged.

"And I assume you'd like to follow up on this Liles," Art concluded.

"I don't even know if he exists," Raylan said. "I went up to Louisville yesterday, hunted up some old acquaintances of Emmitt Arnett and asked about Liles. One fellow just outright laughed. Told me Liles was an old wives' tale, an urban legend like the bogey man. Tim did a search on the name yesterday." He motioned at Tim to summarize his findings.

"And got nothing," Tim responded succinctly. "I got a dozen hits or more from the DMVs in the southern states, but nothing stood out. I didn't get time to do much else because of Barkley and his posse. I'm still sifting."

"There's a couple more people I'd like to talk to," Raylan added. "Welland wasn't faking. He was afraid of something. And besides, I don't like being accused of shooting someone I didn't shoot."

Art decided not to tackle the implication in that last sentence. He had enough on his plate at the moment.

"Well, don't spend too much time on it," he ordered. "If he's not in the system, he's not our problem. We'll let the Feds chase this ghost."

Tim and Raylan returned to their desks and divided up all the 'Jeremy Liles' that Tim had on his list. They spent most of the morning pretending not to spend too much time on it.

"I'm going down to Harlan," Raylan said later, standing up and looking over the barrier at Tim. He stretched and lifted his hat off the shelf behind his desk. "You want to come along?"

"Why would I want to go to Harlan?" Tim asked, eyes focused on his screen.

"I thought I'd pay a visit to Noble's Holler. There are some folk there who might know something about Jeremy Liles. It's a long shot," he added.

Tim stopped what he was doing and looked up at Raylan.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

"What, what?" Raylan countered.

"Raylan, you never ask anyone to 'come along'," Tim explained. "So I just want to know, what am I walking into?"

"Nothing," Raylan shrugged. "It's just that you got caught up in all this. I'm going to talk to Limehouse. He's the kind of fellow you ask about a rumor."

Tim considered the proposal for a minute then got up and grabbed his backup revolver from his drawer.

"We're going to talk, not shoot," Raylan commented.

"You did say Harlan."

Raylan wagged his head.

"Okay, better bring a backup," he conceded.

* * *

The Marshals pulled up later in front of the property owned by Ellstin Limehouse. They walked into the diner, made their queries and were directed to the butcher's shed to find the man himself. Limehouse was wearing his apron and was armed with a long butcher's knife. He was using a whet stone, carefully and methodically sharpening the blade while preaching the virtues of caring for the tools of the trade to a young man standing opposite his block. When he saw Raylan standing at the door he smiled and dismissed his apprentice.

"Deputy Marshal Givens," he addressed his company. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Limehouse," Raylan greeted him moving inside to allow Tim through the door. "I was hoping you might be able to help me with some information. Have you ever…"

"Marshal," Limehouse interrupted, "I don't believe I'm acquainted with your friend here." He pointed at Tim with the sharp end of his knife.

Raylan, belatedly remembering his manners, removed his hat and made the introduction.

"Mr. Limehouse, this is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson," he said and smiled obligingly.

"Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson," Ellstin repeated, speaking the name carefully.

He had shifted his gaze to the younger Marshal, his grin changing from friendly to slightly feral. He paced forward, looking Tim over carefully from head to toe, and stopped in front of him.

"Gutterson. That name sounds familiar. If I remember correctly, it was something about a young sniper up working with the Marshals in Lexington. I'm guessing that's you?" he asked.

"Yessir," Tim confirmed.

"Then you'd be the one that plugged poor Doyle Bennett right between the eyes," he said slowly, almost menacingly. "Damn, that was some mighty fine shooting."

Tim kept his features neutral and looked levelly back at him.

"And then Mags Bennett drinking down that poison and following her son to the grave." Limehouse shook his head sadly. "You cost me a good customer that day," he said. "I reckon you owe me."

Limehouse shifted the knife he was carrying into his left hand and held out his right to shake. Tim looked at it then back at Limehouse and gave him a lop-sided grin.

"Shaking a man's hand is a friendly gesture," Limehouse said coolly.

"Raylan told me what happened the last time a man stuck out his arm near you," Tim replied with a meaningful look at the sharpened blade.

Limehouse grinned, then gave a hearty guffaw and reached over to set the blade down on the side board. He turned back to Tim and put out his hand a second time. Tim shook it smiling, but the smile faded when Limehouse didn't let go. Years of wielding a cleaver had given him a grip like a vice and Tim knew he'd have to work to get free of it. He chose to let it play out and allowed Limehouse to pull his hand up and twist it, not uncomfortably, baring the underside of his arm.

"Uh-huh," Ellstin said knowingly, nodding down at the ink on the inside of Tim's wrist. "It's what I thought. I knew a boy, come back from the war with a tattoo just like this and a look in his eye just like that." He pointed at Tim's face. "Let me tell you something, that boy, he sure did love the cross-hairs. Uh-huh, he did. But he gone wild on us and we had to put him down."

Limehouse let his voice drop, but not his smile, and the last three words came out almost in a whisper. A breeze collected at that moment and swung the door closed, throwing a shadow across his face. The effect, Raylan commented later, was a bit like he was laying a curse and he wondered if Limehouse had any Cajun in his blood, maybe some ancestors from Haiti. He thought it might explain his preference for calling his butcher shop an 'abattoir'.

Raylan looked over at Tim to watch his reaction. Tim had cocked his head to the side in his usual, wry manner.

"It's not easy putting down a sniper, particularly if he's on his guard," Tim responded conversationally, taking his hand back. "You know the best way to do it?"

Limehouse didn't answer. So Tim did.

"You got to send another sniper to hunt him. I know. I had to do it a lot. If you ever need one, you call me 'cause I'm friendly with most of them stateside."

Limehouse continued to study Tim for a moment, then chuckled pleasantly and said, "I'll keep that in mind."

He turned back to Raylan.

"Some information for you, Marshal?"

The spell was broken and Raylan set his hat back on, reaching behind him to push the door open again and let in the sunlight.

"It's a bit of a long shot, Mr. Limehouse, but if anyone's going to know anything, it's you. You ever heard of a man named Jeremy Liles?"

Raylan tried to read the emotion that scattered across Limehouse's features before he turned around, picking up a cleaver from the sideboard and heading back behind his butcher's block again. When he turned to face them, the smile was back in place.

"Jeremy Liles. Oh, I know that name but he got no business in Kentucky. You don't need to go messing in his yard."

"Call me curious."

"I'll call you an undertaker," Ellstin stated firmly. "Now listen here, Marshal, don't you go inviting that kind of evil up to Harlan."

"I ain't superstitious."

"And I ain't talking about superstitious. I'm talking about smart."

Limehouse stood still, gazing over Raylan's shoulder out the door, remembering.

"We all start somewhere. Like that boy just in here that I was teaching. Now me, I used to run errands. Ran a package down south to some folks once. And I seen Jeremy Liles. Now you listen to me, Marshal, and understand what I'm saying. Jeremy Liles is a powerful man. And Jeremy Liles is a good-looking man. Always got a lovely woman on his arm, got big friends and pretty clothes and a handsome house. But pretty is only skin deep. You scratch just a little and you see the ugly, and that kind of ugly go all the way to the bone."

Limehouse raised his cleaver and slammed it down on the pig carcass, cleanly cutting through flesh and bone to sever the hock. He was finished with the conversation.

Raylan signaled to Tim that they should leave, but ventured one more question before heading out.

"Mr. Limehouse, if I wanted to avoid his yard, where would I stay clear of?"

"Louisiana," Ellstin answered not looking up. "And don't ask any more, 'cause I ain't got no particulars."

He lifted his cleaver and cut cleanly through another leg.

"I appreciate your time," Raylan responded. He tipped his hat and left.

When they were out of earshot Tim stopped Raylan to talk.

"Is he always like that?"

"Limehouse has a flair for the dramatic," Raylan replied. "But I think he likes you, Tim. You made him laugh."

"I'm not sure that's a good thing. That laugh sounded a bit psychotic," Tim remarked. "Maybe it's the air down here."

The two stood for a moment in the shade of a large oak on the side of Limehouse's property, neither of them in a hurry to get back in the car. It was a perfect late spring day. The humidity from earlier in the week had broken and a warm sun was bringing life to the greenery, complimented by a light breeze to balance it and keep the air cool. Raylan took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair before settling it back on again. He reached out to touch the bark of the tree and looked up into the branches, squinting into the pieces of bright sky between the leaves.

"I wish Bo or Mags were still alive, though I can't believe I'm saying that," Raylan mused. "I might have been able to get something from them about Liles. Both of them did business outside Kentucky lines."

"How about Boyd?"

Raylan shook his head. "Maybe Bowman. Boyd was out of the picture for too long. And I suspect Liles belongs to the older generation."

Tim thought about mentioning Arlo but decided against it. If Raylan wanted to talk to him, he would.

The breeze shifted and carried with it the smell of barbeque. Tim's stomach rumbled. Raylan grinned.

"Limehouse's cooking _is_ famous," he said, cocking an eyebrow at Tim.

Tim didn't need any coaxing. He turned on the spot and headed back up to the diner.

"You know," Raylan said as they climbed the porch stairs, "I always wondered myself about that tattoo."

"It's just ink," Tim replied, cutting off the question.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"Was he threatening me?"

Raylan had been waiting over an hour to hear that question. Something had been eating at Tim since they'd eaten lunch. He had plowed through the barbeque offerings happily enough, but had settled into an odd blend of contemplative and restless on the way back to Lexington. It might have been annoying if the day weren't so perfect.

Raylan enjoyed driving in Kentucky, especially in the late spring when everything was green in varieties that could never bore you. He found himself equal to the task of putting up with edgy Tim when he was cruising along the I-75 with the windows down enough to let in the fresh air.

"You mean Limehouse," he replied. "I suspect so. He was testing the ground but I think you drew your line pretty well. He'll respect that."

He glanced over at Tim who was frowning. He could see the smoke.

"Just how many snipers are you friendly with?" Raylan asked, amused at finally seeing something or someone get through the relentless Tim Gutterson composure.

"Well, quite a few, really," Tim replied.

"That would give any man pause," Raylan chuckled.

"I just find it confusing, that kind of threat. I'm used to something more direct. In Afghanistan, if there are bullets whizzing past your head, that's a threat and you duck and shoot back," Tim explained. "But this? What the hell do you do with this?"

Raylan was openly laughing at this point. "How long have you been a Marshal?"

"Four years now, I guess."

"Jesus," Raylan sniggered. "You'll get used to it."

"I doubt it."

Tim seemed to settle down once they'd had the discussion, or maybe his stomach had finally registered the barbecue. He sank a little into his seat and shut his eyes. Raylan was hopeful that the rest of the trip might be less agitating but ten minutes later Tim sat up straight again. He was chewing on something else.

"Is Limehouse from Louisiana?" he asked.

"That thought did cross my mind today," Raylan replied. "But I know for a fact he was born in Noble's Holler. Maybe his family is though."

"I hate swamps."

Raylan glanced over at Tim again, wondering what prompted that remark.

"You hate swamps? Who doesn't hate swamps?"

"'Gators."

Raylan rolled his eyes.

"I had to do training in a swamp in Florida with the Rangers," said Tim.

"How was that?"

"Wet."

Raylan considered pulling into the oncoming traffic to end his misery.

"Almost two weeks crawling around in a swamp," Tim eventually added. "Hungry, tired and wet the whole time. I dropped fifteen pounds. And then I spent all my combat time in the desert."

"Go figure."

Raylan tried to picture Tim fifteen pounds lighter but gave up. He decided it was his turn to change the subject.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what?" Tim asked warily.

"About Louisiana. When are you heading back to Beauregard? Don't they have to reschedule that training?"

"Are you _trying_ to get me fired?"

* * *

"I'm glad you've taken my advice to heart and aren't spending too much time on this," Art remarked sarcastically when they walked back into the office mid afternoon.

"We went for lunch," said Raylan.

"Down to Harlan?"

"Best barbecue I ever had," Tim reported happily.

"Uh-huh," Art replied. "Did either of you shoot anybody?"

"We shot the shit," said Raylan.

"And what did you get out of that?"

"There definitely is a rumor about a man named Jeremy Liles, a man who may or may not actually exist," Tim answered when Raylan hesitated. "I feel like I'm in an episode of the X-Files."

"More like Scooby-Doo," Art said. "Did you take the Mystery Machine?"

"No, but we had some Scooby snacks, didn't we, Tim."

"You're done with this," Art ordered. "Do you hear?"

Raylan and Tim nodded okay.

It wasn't difficult to follow Art's orders for the remainder of the day. There was always paperwork to catch up on or phone calls to return. Raylan and Rachel left to chase a lead on a fugitive from Alaska. Tim stayed at his desk, working steadily through a backlog of reports, then packed up and left a couple of hours later. Neil, his friend at the Louisville FBI office, was waiting for him at the bottom of the courthouse steps.

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked, grinning.

"I came to meet your girl," Neil replied. "Invite me for dinner. Unless of course you've been bullshitting me and she doesn't really exist."

"Or she's a blow-up doll."

"Anything else would challenge your intellect."

Neil and Tim had been friends since Ranger school. Neil was from New York State, the youngest of five brothers, and used to endless teasing. The two had started by trading taunts when they first met, then had laughed their way through the worst of the training, keeping each other emotionally above the muck and exhaustion.

"Actually, I should warn you, she's got a PhD and she's a psychologist. Best just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking," Tim suggested. "She might actually think you're normal all duded up in your G-man suit."

"It shouldn't be hard for me to fool her if she thinks you're okay."

"Oh, no, she already knows I'm crazy."

"And yet she's still with you?"

"Until she's done her research."

Tim noted that Neil hadn't moved from his seat on the steps in front of the courthouse. He loosened his tie and looked like he needed to say something important.

"What?" Tim finally prodded.

"I'm not here talking to you about this, okay?" Neil said vaguely.

"Okay."

"I've got some information for you, but I'm not sure you want to share it with your girlfriend, or anybody for that matter. It's my job if it gets back to the office that I discussed this with you."

"You want to go for a beer first?" Tim suggested.

"Yeah."

"Can I call another Marshal?" Tim asked. "The information's more for him. I'll be telling him everything anyway."

"As long as it's not the guy who almost got me fired," said Neil.

"Uh…"

"I'm joking," Neil laughed, enjoying the expression on Tim's face. "Seriously, Barkley's an asshole. I hear you had another nice visit with him yesterday. He speaks so warmly about you and Deputy Givens. I assume he's the one we're meeting?"

Tim was already on the phone calling Raylan and answered Neil's question by arching an eyebrow.

Raylan suggested they meet at the bar where he had his apartment. It was a fortunate choice for Tim. Raylan was late, but the lovely blonde who ran the place had Neil tied in knots and Tim amused himself watching his friend try to get her to go out with him. She was over chatting with them when Raylan walked in.

"Hi, Lindsey," he called when he came through the door. "Are these gentlemen bothering you? I can bounce them out of here if you want."

"Hey, Raylan," she answered, "they already told me they know you." She put a hand on his arm when he came over.

Raylan squirmed, aware of Tim intently watching Lindsey interact with him.

"Do you mind if I play customer for a bit?" he asked her, smiling awkwardly.

"Not at all, honey," she said, reading his discomfort and tactfully taking a step away. "What can I get you?"

"The usual."

"The usual hard or the usual not-so-hard?" she asked innocently.

Tim could have sworn he saw Raylan blush if it were possible and had to look away to keep from laughing out loud. He finally understood why Raylan hadn't yet moved out from his room over the bar.

Raylan grimaced. "Uh, just a beer, Lindsey. Thanks."

He sat down and shot Tim a warning glare, hoping it would be enough to deter any future comments. Tim just stared back, an evil glint in his eye.

Raylan gritted his teeth, turned and introduced himself to Neil, apologizing for the trouble he had caused over Sammy Tonin a few months back. Neil just laughed it off, saying he was happy to see someone give Agent Barkley the runaround. Lindsey returned with Raylan's beer, smiled sweetly and went back behind the bar.

"She's hot," Neil commented appreciatively, watching her walk away.

Tim choked on his beer at the look on Raylan's face.

"So," Neil asked, once the distraction had disappeared, "did you guys really pop Paul Welland?"

"Uh-huh," Tim replied straight-faced. "We do that sort of thing all the time. Supplements our Marshal's wages."

Neil grinned. He was used to Tim.

"Blackwater pays better," he said, reminding him of previous job offers.

"I've had this discussion with you before," Tim responded. "The benefits package sucks. Not to mention you have to do your probation time in Iraq."

"What's wrong with Iraq?" Raylan asked. "It'd be exciting."

"I'd rather be posted to the Antarctic," said Tim.

"I've heard they have Marshals down there," Neil commented, interested. "Is it true?"

"They do," confirmed Raylan. "I'll let Art know you're interested, Tim. Imagine the research Miljana could do on the effects of extreme isolation on the human psyche."

Tim pulled out his phone and took a photo of Lindsey smiling over at Raylan from behind the bar.

"Imagine the fun I could have from my room in the Antarctic sending this picture to certain of my Kentucky acquaintances," he said looking mischievously at Raylan.

"I'll bet cell phone reception is shit down there."

"Only during solar flares."

"I liked you better when you wore golf shirts and tried to please everybody."

"I liked you better in Miami."

"So, gentlemen, Paul Welland was working for the Dixie Mafia," Neil stated, clapping his hands together to get their attention. "Sorry, did I interrupt, or are you two finished flirting?"

"He just brings it out in me," Raylan responded. "If I had an annoying little brother, it'd be Tim."

"And I'd be from Harlan. The horror."

Neil laughed, enjoying the banter.

"Dixie Mafia?" Raylan prodded, giving Neil his attention.

Neil explained that Paul Welland had been in negotiations with the FBI to turn state's evidence against a number of drug and gun traffickers tied to the Dixie Mafia and the Sinaloa cartel. Welland, an excellent money manager but a terrible thief, was skimming and his extravagant lifestyle had finally caught the attention of the Feds and his clients. Someone in the FBI was going to have their career blunted because Welland was now dead rather than in WITSEC.

"The agent in charge hadn't even contacted the Marshals office in San Diego yet which is why you two got the immediate scrutiny you did. My source tells me that Welland had ties to Tommy Bucks, too, and there was some speculation that you were on the take, working for the Dixie gang," Neil said, nodding at Raylan, "their hitman hiding behind a Marshal's star."

"How about Jeremy Liles?" Raylan asked, not reacting at all to the accusation. "Anything on him?"

Neil shifted in his seat and scratched his head. "I couldn't find much," he confessed. "But that in itself is telling." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photocopy of an old report. "I didn't dare bring the original. I had to do some fast-talking to get this."

He offered the page between them, like a waiter unsure who's paying the bill and settling for a neutral spot on the table. Tim motioned for Raylan to have a look first. The report was almost completely blacked out. It had been officially redacted, purged of any pertinent information. Raylan, disappointed, passed it to Tim and gave Neil a questioning look.

Neil shrugged. "The entire file was like that. And it's beyond my pay level to find out why. I did, however, come up with a reference to an assault charge from 1948." He pulled out another report.

"1948?" Raylan repeated in disbelief, skimming through the page. "How old is he?"

"Maybe you want to ask 'how old _was_ he'?" said Neil. "He would be 86, if he was still alive. There's a questionable death certificate, but other than that, I can't find any record of him after 1972."

The older report had an address for Liles in Lafayette, Louisiana. Raylan jotted it down and smiled at Tim.

"Camp Beauregard's just outside of Alexandria, isn't it? That's not too far from Lafayette," Raylan commented.

As if on cue, Tim's phone buzzed.

"I don't believe it," he exclaimed, checking the text. "It's SOG. How did you do that?"

"It's that Louisiana voodoo," Raylan replied.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

The Atchafalaya River runs into the Gulf of Mexico west of the Mississippi, winding and meandering through Louisiana, spawning offshoots, bayous, some seasonal, some permanent, into the surrounding lowlands. These bayous were the highways for the early settlers and many set up homesteads on their banks. The Liles property was one of these and was probably fairly remote at one time, before the population boom expanded Lafayette east to the border of what is now the Atchafalaya Wildlife Refuge.

The house itself, not a grandiose southern plantation but maybe a nice summer home, was big enough and well-maintained over the years, set back from the road on a large piece of property, out of sight of its neighbors, with a boathouse and another outbuilding near the water. This was the address from the report that Neil had found and the family name worked in iron on the old driveway gate, Tim noted as he drove past, was Liles.

Raylan had talked Tim into checking out the address after he finished his SOG training at Camp Beauregard. It was only an hour and half south on the interstate to Lafayette and truthfully, Raylan hadn't needed to do much talking to get Tim to go. When Tim found the place, he called Raylan and described it. Raylan suggested that he just stroll on up and knock on the door, show off his badge and ask some questions. Tim knew he was joking. They had both heard enough stories about the Dixie Mafia to believe they wouldn't hesitate to shoot him in the back of the head and dump his body in the bayou for the alligators. Tim opted for something less obvious, some good old-fashioned surveillance.

He figured he'd give it two days, see what he could see then drive back into Lafayette and catch a flight home. He had told Art he was going to take a couple of extra days to visit a friend.

There was only the one long road passing by the house between the swamp land on one side and the bayou on the other. Tim decided after driving it that his best bet was to walk in at night since there was no place to leave a car nearby that wouldn't attract attention.

He equipped himself with a camera, food, fresh water, a good map, his GPS, a small flashlight and a scope and waterproofed everything. The only thing he was missing was his rifle for comfort. He couldn't fly his in from Kentucky without getting Art's permission and smuggling one out of Camp Beauregard just seemed like a bad idea. He had his Glock, which was a good weapon wet or dry, his backup and a knife. He'd make do.

He left his car on the north side of the interstate at the bottom of the off-ramp and walked down the road after midnight. It was over five miles to the house but he covered the distance quickly, leaving plenty of time before daylight to get comfortably hidden and even have a short nap before the sun came up.

The house was quiet the first day. A nurse arrived at 9am and left just after 4pm. Tim took her picture and jotted down her license plate number and wondered about home care for an 86-year-old. The rest of that day and that night were uninteresting. The second day followed the same dull routine and Tim had trouble keeping awake. He figured he'd head back to the car around 8pm on the second night to catch his late flight to Lexington.

He had nothing to report back and was beginning to think that Jeremy Liles was the bogey man, a story to frighten people, when a car pulled in and another behind it. The first, a Lincoln, belonged to a gentleman who looked the same age as Raylan, or possibly older. He was a tall, good-looking man dressed in a well-cut suit. The second, a sporty Miata, was driven by a woman. Tim tagged her as a blonde Betty Boop. The two disappeared into the house.

A half hour later, they reappeared in the backyard each carrying a drink, something hard, maybe bourbon thought Tim and licked his lips. They were arguing. She was yelling at him and struggling in her heels to keep up with him as he strode across the long yard toward the bayou. He finally turned and struck her with a vicious backhand blow that spun her sideways off her feet. Tim flinched, shocked and angry for her. She went down hard and stayed down for a while, eventually staggering up and stumbling back to the house. Tim watched her come out the front door moments later, crying, and drive away. The man continued to the outbuilding without once looking back, unlocked the doors and went inside.

The sun had dropped below the trees and with no moon it became dark quickly. Tim checked his watch and calculated that he could probably stay an extra hour. He was glad he did. A truck pulled in and backed slowly down the grass lane to the stables. Three men got out and started unloading crates into the old building. One of the men Tim recognized. He was the Marine from Paul Welland's house in San Diego, the security guard.

Tim let out a breath, knowing he was full in it now. He said a mental _adios_ to his flight plans, pulled back from his hiding spot and slipped noiselessly through the trees toward the bayou to get a closer look at the truck's cargo.

The tall gentleman was taking his time, opening every crate and systematically checking the contents. Tim used his night scope to identify the items, AK-47s and hand grenades, a _narco's_ favorite toys. Raylan had said that Tommy Bucks facilitated weapons trades for his employer. It looked like they were still in the business. Using the scope as a zoom lens, an old trick he'd picked up from another sniper, he cranked up the exposure on his camera and took a couple of pictures, hoping there was enough light from the doorway that he and Raylan would be able to identify the men later.

The low rumble of a slow-running outboard motor drifted across the water and a few minutes later a boat pulled into the dock. It was gunrunning night at the Liles house, and a beautiful, calm, dark night for it. Tim wondered, considering where the house was situated, if it was possible the family had been running illegal goods for decades, maybe centuries.

Deciding he'd seen enough, Tim packed his gear away and started edging backward into the cover of the trees. Each of the men working at the house was armed, and with the two in the boat making six altogether, he was beginning to feel uneasy. It was time to go.

The gentleman moved away from the crates at the door of the building and headed over to greet the boatmen.

"Let the dogs out," he called back over his shoulder to the Marine, who nodded and went inside.

Tim stiffened _. Dogs? Shit_.

Two large black dogs scrambled out of the outbuilding and ran up the lawn. He couldn't see them well, but the way they moved they looked like Rottweilers, guard dogs. They stopped and started sniffing. Tim watched their progress anxiously. They worked their way over to the spot where he had lay hidden for two days, started barking in unison and took off back toward the water heading straight for him.

Tim turned and ran. He had only one escape route and he didn't hesitate. He slid off the bank and slipped into the bayou as quietly as he could, lying flat, hiding in the shallows. He could hear them sniffing along the path, coming closer and closer. He moved farther out into the brackish water.

The dogs stood yelping on the bank, putting the men on edge. They pulled out weapons and started searching around the outbuilding. The two in the boat had a spotlight and cruised slowly along the bank toward him, illuminating the reeds and the shallows. Tim submerged himself and kicked blindly out into the deeper water, not wanting to get caught between the armed men and the dogs. When he resurfaced he was on the other side of the boat. It passed within ten feet of him. He pulled his Glock, not daring to move and attract attention. Luckily the men were looking intently toward shore and floated past.

Tim kept quiet and still, letting the current pull him downstream and toward the opposite bank. He hoped they would give up the search. The beams from flashlights moved up the driveway as two men started hunting along the road in both directions and the two in the boat motored slowly in longer and longer sweeps up and down the water's edge. They were being cautious. Tim thought briefly about alligators then a little longer about leeches, turned and kicked silently across the bayou to the opposite side. There was no way he was getting back on the west bank tonight.

A hundred yards downstream he crawled out onto the soft, muddy east bank and moved into the shelter of the trees until he found some dry ground. He checked the time and swore under his breath. It was midnight and there were five miles of wildlife refuge between him and the interstate.

Rather than stumble around in the dark he squatted down, cursing dogs and luck. He watched the activity across the bayou until his eyes started drooping then made himself as comfortable as he could and fell asleep.

* * *

Miljana was on the phone to Art first thing the following morning. Tim's flight had arrived on time last night without him on it. Art calmed her down, joking lightly that he'd have to get her a hotline to his office. As he hung up Raylan walked in from the elevator. Art watched him stop inside the doors, look over at Tim's desk and frown, concerned. Tim was always in first.

Art could add. Tim's girl was not one for hysterics; Raylan was not one to be concerned over Tim's absence; Tim was never late.

"Shit," Art muttered getting up from his desk.

He intercepted Raylan with a question. "Where's Tim? And don't tell me you don't know."

Raylan had pulled out his phone and was staring at the display. He looked over at Tim's empty desk again then back at Art.

"He was supposed to call me last night before his flight. I've tried him a dozen times. He's not answering."

"Well, I guess he wasn't visiting a friend, was he?" Art stated. "Is this anything to do with Liles?"

Raylan bit his lip.

"Dammit, Raylan, I told you two to leave this alone. Where is he?" Art repeated.

"Lafayette. I talked to him two days ago. He was checking an address for me. He was going to watch the house for a bit."

Art rubbed his eyes then passed his hand over his head, digesting the information and calculating his next move.

"With any luck he's just been arrested for trespassing," he said, but both he and Raylan knew they would have had a phone call by now if that were the case.

They exchanged worried looks.

"Well, go get him," Art ordered.

"I'd better go get him," Raylan said at the same time, turning around and heading out.

"It'll be no fun at all beating him to death if somebody's shot him!" Art yelled after him.

Art stomped back into his office. He never did particularly like its fancy glass design and it especially bothered him today. He couldn't slam his door. He picked up his phone and dialed the City Marshal in Lafayette and called in a favor.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Tim woke up around 8am from a fitful sleep, hungry, mosquito-bitten and still wet. He figured he must have been tired to have slept past sunrise. He fished around in his pockets for his phone, hoping for an easy route out of the swamp and was dismayed to find that it wasn't working. In his hurry to clear out of the Liles property he had forgotten to put it in a waterproof bag before going swimming.

He pulled out his last bit of food and fresh water and ate a meager breakfast, then used his map and compass to get an idea of where he was. It was unsafe crossing the bayou at this point, in sight of the Liles property, so he started slogging his way north toward the I-10. The prospect of trekking through the swamp didn't bother him too much. He'd done it before.

Working his way through the trees, Tim stayed away from the bank until he was a good mile upstream and well clear of the gunrunner's dock. He tried to keep to dry land but didn't waste too much time skirting the depressions and ended up slopping through a few shallow wet areas. Four hot hours later he heard a boat. He slipped his Glock into his pocket and kept a hand on it and watched the bayou. An elderly man in an old rowboat with a small outboard came around the bend. He looked harmless enough so Tim flagged him down.

The man pulled to, but not too close. He looked warily at Tim.

"Well, you're a sight. What are you doing over on this side of the bayou?" he asked. "They closed this park to hikers since Katrina came through, or didn't you know."

"Believe me, I'm not here by choice," Tim replied. "I don't suppose you'd give me a ride to the other side?"

"I might. I might not. I can tell you're not from around here, and if you don't mind me saying so, you don't look very trustworthy."

"You're right, I'm not from here. I'm from Kentucky. But I'm not untrustworthy, just…muddy," Tim said.

The old man wasn't convinced.

"Okay, I'm a Deputy US Marshal," Tim tried, reaching into his pocket, pulling out his badge and holding it up.

The man raised his eyebrows. "I'm more likely to believe you're an idiot," he responded.

"You wouldn't be the first person to tell me that. Look, be a good citizen and help me out," Tim pleaded. "You'd have the undying gratitude of the US Marshals Service, or at least this one member of it."

The old man signaled for Tim to throw the badge over. Tim tossed it into the bottom of the boat where it was picked up, squinted at, examined and deemed legitimate. The boat was swung around and Tim climbed in, introducing himself when he got comfortable. He asked, but wasn't surprised to find that the old fellow didn't have a cell phone. He couldn't understand why anyone would need one.

He was easy company and Tim listened patiently to his tall tales while they meandered slowly upstream, under the interstate bridge and over to the west bank. He said he'd been fishing that bayou his whole life, but had never caught anything as interesting as a US Marshal. Tim hinted that it might not be a good idea for him to let anyone know who he had been ferrying around that day. The old fellow pursed his lips, disapproving of the secrecy.

"Tell you what," Tim bargained. "If this gets resolved, I'll come back and tell you the whole story. Would that work for you?"

"That would do it," the old man agreed.

They shook on the deal. Tim thanked him again and climbed up on the bank.

* * *

Raylan had a welcoming committee of one waiting for him at the Lafayette airport. Deputy Marshal Earl Dubose, a friend of Art's since training, greeted him with a slap on the back. He looked every bit the Marshal, lean and weathered, with a sensational handle-bar mustache. At a glance he was a caricature of a Texan, but his accent placed him farther east, Louisiana born and bred. Earl had never spent time north of the Mason-Dixon Line and would happily brag about it to anyone who would listen.

"Art told me to look for a cowboy hat," he laughed warmly. "Welcome to Louisiana."

"You know, it's my first time to Lafayette," Raylan replied, liking Earl already. "Art called you, did he?"

"That's right. He called this morning all in a knot. I've traced your boy to a car rental in Alexandria," Earl stated, getting straight to the point. "We'll find him. Don't you worry. I've got the locals keeping an eye out for the plates."

"Did you tell them why?" Raylan asked.

Earl led the way out to his car, thinking about the implications imbedded in that question.

"No. Art asked me to keep this under my hat. I told the locals your boy was wanted for questioning only in a case up in Kentucky, and to treat him nicely if they found him."

Raylan nodded, relieved. Art had been off the streets for a while, playing the part of the bulldog Chief, and it was easy to forget that he was a talented investigator in his day. Raylan should have known he'd have thought this through. The ramifications of one of his Marshals poking around private property without a warrant or permission were enough to make him want to keep this quiet. But a bigger concern was the Dixie Mafia finding out about it and possibly getting to Tim first. They likely had people working for them on the local police force.

"Art suggested you might know where to start looking," Earl said.

"Ever heard of Jeremy Liles?" Raylan asked.

Earl rolled his eyes. "Oh Lord, not him again. His name comes up 'bout once a year. There's always some fool using him as an excuse for breaking the law. Shaking and trembling in fear of retribution from the mysterious Jeremy Liles."

"I'm beginning to think I'm investigating a ghost."

"Maybe. Though the man is real enough, or was. He was often implicated in dealings with the Dixie Mafia back in the '50's, but nothing ever stuck," Earl explained. "He used to represent them when they went to trial. He was a lawyer. I heard he was killed in a boating accident."

Raylan gave Earl the address and digested the information. He had decided after his discussion with Limehouse not to be surprised by anything he heard about Liles.

Earl's phone buzzed as they were getting into his car. He answered, spoke briefly and hung up.

"Well, how about that," he said. "They just found the car off the I-10, up the road from this address. Shouldn't take us more than a half hour to get there."

Raylan tried to tamp down his fears, there was nothing to be gained by assuming the worst, but he had hoped Tim's car would turn up at the airport.

Thirty minutes later they pulled off the highway and in behind a police cruiser parked at the side of the road. Raylan was out of the car before it stopped rolling, striding over to the waiting patrolmen. He nodded to them as he moved past to the rental and stooped to peer in the windows.

"Can you open it?" he asked.

One of the officers produced a Slim-Jim from the cruiser and popped the lock. Raylan searched the car and the trunk, finding Tim's backpack full of clothes and not much else. Earl came around beside him.

"Shit," Raylan swore in a low voice for Earl's ears only. "This just doesn't look good."

"Now what?" Earl asked.

"I guess we go to the house," Raylan answered.

"And say what, exactly?"

Raylan let out a breath. And say what? _Have you seen a Kentucky Marshal trespassing on your property without a warrant? Did you happen to see where he went? Oh, into the bayou with a bullet in his head? Thank you for your help._

"I'll see if I can get us a boat," Earl suggested.

Raylan kicked at the dirt, discouraged. He hated not knowing if Tim was okay. He hated things that were out of his control. He was starting to hate the name Jeremy Liles.

Earl wandered over to chat with the patrolmen, spinning them a convincing story about the abandoned car, thanking them and sending them on their way. He gave Raylan a sympathetic look and went back to his car to use the radio.

Raylan decided it was time to phone Art. Before he finished dialing he was distracted by a noise in the bushes.

"I hope there's a sandwich to go with that stupid hat," a familiar voice called from the bayou side of the road and Tim emerged from the brush, muddy, sweaty, scratched and tired. "I thought I recognized your voice."

"Dammit, Tim," Raylan exclaimed, relieved. He took a step toward him but then stopped himself. They both grinned stupidly.

"Jesus, buddy, I can smell you from here," Raylan complained, fanning his hat in front of his face. "You stink."

"And you're ugly," Tim shot back. "So how 'bout you plug your nose and I'll close my eyes."

"You look like you could fall asleep standing," said Raylan looking Tim over, reassuring himself that he was okay. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Touring the Atchafalaya Wildlife Refuge. It's more attractive from a distance."

"And you coincidentally decided you'd had enough right at this very moment and popped up to say hello," Raylan filled in suspiciously.

"Actually I've been hiding down on the bank here the last two hours or so hoping the fellows in the cruiser would leave," Tim explained. "After all the stories we've heard about Liles I just wasn't prepared to trust them."

"That's probably wise considering they only just called me a half hour ago," Earl piped in, looking thoughtful. "That worries me a bit."

The Louisiana Marshal had been standing at the car watching the reunion. He walked over, held out his phone and took their photo. "Now there's a pretty picture. I think I'll send this to Art. I'll title it 'Happy Times at the Marshal Lost and Found'."

"Earl," Raylan said, "let me introduce you." He waved his arm at Tim. "This is the swamp thing."

Earl stepped forward and shook Tim's hand. "I am happy to see you alive and well," he said sincerely. "Glad to meet you, too. I'm Earl Dubose."

"Tim Gutterson."

Earl looked him up and down. "Well, you're a sight."

"That must be Cajun for, 'welcome to Louisiana'," Tim replied sarcastically.

Earl laughed. "And you must be hungry and tired. Let's get you some food."

"I'll take you up on that, but first I need a shower. And can I borrow someone's phone?" Tim asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Mine's toast."

"Is that why you didn't call? I was feeling so hurt." Raylan pulled out his phone and handed it over. "What happened to yours?"

"Apparently it's not a good bath toy. Don't buy one for your kid."

Tim looked at the phone for a minute, trying to decide who to call first, Art or Miljana.

"I hope you're calling your girlfriend. She was on Art first thing this morning," Raylan said.

"She's going to kill me," Tim moaned dialing her.

"You've been taking her to the range, haven't you?"

"Yep," Tim nodded. "I may regret it."

"If she lets you live that long. Though Art might kill us before she gets a chance."

"Why don't I call your boss," Earl offered. "He won't yell at me."

"You do that and Tim'll buy you dinner," Raylan said gratefully.

Earl turned and wandered a short ways down the road so he could speak seriously with his old friend. He didn't trust himself not to laugh at Raylan and Tim's antics and didn't think it would convey the appropriate tone considering the circumstances. Art was relieved and annoyed in equal proportions. He recommended to Earl that he keep them overnight. This would serve two purposes: Art could get over the worst of his anger and Raylan could sift through whatever Tim had uncovered and hopefully finish scratching that itch before heading back to Lexington.

"So did Art like the picture?" Raylan asked Earl after he'd hung up.

"Oh, he sure did. He said he was going to show it off around the office then put it up as his desktop," Earl replied. "That's what he said."

"Art's good at keeping you grounded," Raylan commented wryly.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

He stood in the shower for a full ten minutes, letting the warm water run off his hair and down his face, before peeling out of his clothes and leaving them in a muddy heap in the back of the tub. With his eyes closed he was surprised by an onslaught of smells from the Army base near Kabul. He must have been tired to have let that creep in. Maybe it was the shower and the dirt. He would describe it to Miljana when he got back home, the sweat, army-issue soap, goat piss, engine oil, the in-your-face humanity, the odors and aromas that were Afghanistan all mingled.

She loved the details. He suspected her interest had grown out of a need to get him talking at all. Their conversations about his time in combat always started with small things, safe things, what the food was like, how hot the hottest day was, how a camel spider moved, and ended with him describing incidents and anecdotes he didn't think he would ever share with someone who hadn't been there standing beside him on that rocky hill or in that dusty OP. He never imagined that it could soothe like it did.

In turn, she talked about coming to America, learning English, her father re-certifying in Medicine at the college while he and her mother worked labor jobs, never complaining, always laughing. And now she sat on his porch and shared the laughter with him. She could make just about anything funny.

One thing Tim had come to realize while working law enforcement was that everyone had a story, goat-herders and gunrunners alike. Raylan knew this and used it to his advantage, coaxing out the details that told so much. Whenever Tim had an opportunity to work a case with him, he watched and learned. And laughed a little more, too.

After ten more minutes of soaping and soaking, he figured he'd kept the other two waiting long enough for the information he had. He turned off the shower and was dressed and knocking on Raylan's door five minutes later.

Earl had taken them to a motel not far from the airport and had sat in Raylan's room listening with interest to the details of the case, from Roland Pike to Paul Welland, while they waited for Tim to shower. Raylan opened the door when Tim knocked.

"Well, you smell better. Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Much," Tim replied, heading to the small bar fridge.

"Sorry you missed your flight again," Raylan said. "Was it worth it?"

"It was worth it," Tim promised, rifling through the items and pulling out the overpriced snacks.

Raylan took them away from him and put them back. The look on Tim's face was so pathetic that Raylan laughed out loud. He patted Tim on the head and suggested they go for an early dinner. Earl recommended a steak house only five minutes up the road. Tim was the first out the door.

Earl was mesmerized watching Tim work his way through the basket of bread left for them by the waitress and he commented that he had never seen anyone enjoy a beer so much as the younger Marshal. Tim just grinned.

After the waitress had taken their order, Tim slid his camera across the table for Raylan.

"Hopefully there's a picture or two on there that'll be helpful," he said. "I need a better camera, but at least that one's waterproof."

Raylan started scrolling through the photos, with Earl leaning in to look.

Fortunately their dinners came quickly and Tim set himself to the task at hand, methodically working through his steak, then ordering dessert, coffee and bourbon without breaking stride. Raylan thought dessert sounded like an excellent idea and ordered ice cream and a shot of bourbon for himself.

"I know that fellow," Earl said, stopping Raylan at a photo of the couple arguing. "That's Henry Ducatel. His mother is a Liles, Jeremy's sister if I remember right. Smart fellow. Partner in a law firm. He intends to run for a seat in the Senate in the next election. Got some influential people backing him."

"Seriously?" Tim came up for air and looked at Raylan. "Remind you of Limehouse's description of Jeremy Liles?"

"Must be bred in the bone," Raylan mused. "He'd be his nephew."

"Well, he's taken over the family business from what I saw," Tim added. "They were preparing to ship some weapons out on a boat yesterday – at night, in the dark, with the help of the Marine you and I met in San Diego."

"Doesn't sound too above board," said Earl.

Tim shook his head. "AKs and hand grenades. And I didn't see any purchase orders or receipts. I'll bet you they're headed for Mexico."

Raylan kept scrolling through the photos until he came to one where he could make out the Marine talking to Henry Ducatel by the outbuilding.

"Huh."

"Uh-huh," Tim responded. "Paul Welland's executioner?"

Raylan sat back in his chair, thinking. "I wonder if the FBI want him for questioning in the murder case in San Diego. If there's a warrant…"

Tim raised his eyebrows. "If there's not, then the Feds are even stupider than we already think."

"Don't be discouraging, Tim. Let me hold on to hope."

Raylan finished looking through the last of the pictures and put the camera in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and contacted Art, asking if he would mind making some follow-up calls about Paul Welland's murder investigation.

"I got to ask, Tim," Raylan prodded after he was finished talking to Art. "How did you end up in the water?"

"Dogs. Two big, nasty, guard dogs. I hate dogs."

"More than swamps even, apparently."

"Did any of the men see you?" Earl asked.

"Uh-uh," Tim replied, shaking his head. "They were too busy looking on land and I didn't hang around. I swam across the bayou and hid."

Earl chuckled. "Most people would dare the dogs rather than swim those waters in the dark."

"Swamps can't chase you and they don't bite."

"Boy, you need to spend more time in Louisiana if you think that," Earl responded.

"I guess six armed men and a couple of nasty dogs made that bayou look kind of friendly, huh?" Raylan commented.

He downed the last of his bourbon and ordered another round. When it came he raised his glass at Tim.

"I appreciate what you did," he said.

Tim shrugged. "Yeah, well, this whole thing's starting to make _me_ itch," he responded then paused. "On the other hand, maybe that's just the mosquito bites."

Tim fell asleep in the three minutes it took them to drive back from the restaurant. Raylan stopped Earl from shaking him awake when they arrived at the motel, putting out a hand to keep him back. He called to the younger Marshal from outside the car. Tim had his handgun out in a startled second and the reaction had Earl's eyebrows shooting up as fast. In a daze, Tim holstered his Glock and glared at Raylan. He steered Tim to his room, ordering him to stay put and get some sleep while he and Earl did a little digging.

Earl watched Tim go then gave Raylan a concerned look. "How long has he been a Marshal? He seems a tad high-strung for my liking."

"He was in Afghanistan before he started," Raylan replied defending Tim. "He's a good Marshal and cool as you'd want in a sticky situation." He was a bit annoyed at Earl's comment. Tim had never let him down, not once. It was okay for he and Art and Rachel to criticize and tease, but this man didn't even know him.

"I sense I'm out of line here," Earl soothed. "I meant no disrespect."

Raylan nodded.

"Are you okay to do some leg work tonight, or am I keeping you from something?"

Earl leaned on the car and smiled grimly. "The wife left me years back and the kids are all grown up. I have no plans. I'm happy to play tour guide. Haven't had this much excitement in a while."

"Come work in Kentucky. We seem to attract trouble," Raylan joked. "I'm beginning to think it's Art."

Earl took Raylan up to his office to access the DMV database, looking for an ID for the nurse that Tim saw working at the Liles house. The computer spit out a name, Claire Franklin, and an address in Lafayette and the two Marshals decided to drive over and check it out. As they were pulling up near her apartment, they saw the woman getting into her car and they ended up following her back downtown to a bar. She slipped into a pair of heels in the parking lot, freshened up her lipstick and tottered inside.

"I'm too old to flirt," Earl said, looking at Raylan. "You go talk to her."

Raylan frowned. "I'm no good at flirting," he protested.

Earl snorted, not buying it.

"Okay, fine, but you're coming in with me."

The two men strolled casually into the bar and took a seat at a table near the back. Claire, the nurse, was sitting alone sipping a drink.

Their waitress bounced over, a lively young girl, barely drinking age herself and extremely chatty. She insisted on trying out Raylan's hat and he reluctantly indulged her. He watched, dismayed, as she put it on and traipsed back to the bar to get their order, doing a full circuit of her tables to show it off.

When she came back with their beers Raylan smiled his charming best, showed her his star and asked her about the nurse. The girl tipped Raylan's hat back off her forehead a bit and planted a hand on her hip, clearly disappointed in the topic of conversation.

"Oh, that's Claire. She comes in here once or twice a week. She's nice enough, but boring." She leaned over and said more quietly, "Sometimes she leaves with somebody."

Raylan looked over at the bar. Clair was attractive, probably in her mid thirties. Raylan felt he understood her coming here, looking for company without commitment. He remembered a time when he, like the young waitress, could not imagine being lonely. But he found he was more particular about whom he wanted to spend time with now and that made lonely a more likely prospect.

He stood, picked up his glass from the table, reverently plucked his hat from the waitress's head and walked over to have a conversation with Claire.

It took two minutes for Raylan to decide to be straight with her. She was a nice woman. And there was something about her that drew his sympathy. She had seemed flattered when he slid onto the bar stool beside her. They tossed small talk easily enough between them and it would have been a simple matter for him to buy her a couple more drinks and get her talking. Instead he explained that he was in law enforcement looking into a murder and asked her to join him and Earl at their table. She didn't seem too disappointed. In fact, she seemed relieved and followed him over willingly after making him show her his ID.

"You want to ask me about the people I work for, don't you?" she said and read the acknowledgement on Raylan's face. "I wondered. They gave me notice this morning. No reason or anything. Paid me for the next two weeks and told me not to come back. It's okay, though. I hated the job. I took it to keep busy and pay the bills after my husband died."

Raylan asked the question with a look.

"He died in Iraq," she explained simply. "But it's so quiet out at that house, it's not helping. My mom wants me to move back to Georgia. I think I might."

"What did you do out at the house?" Earl asked.

"I looked after the old man," she shrugged.

"The old man?" Raylan repeated.

"Mr. Liles," she said. "He's a paraplegic."

" _Jeremy_ Liles?" Raylan queried.

"I don't know. I was told to call him Mr. Liles."

"What happened to him?" Earl questioned.

"I'm not sure exactly. He didn't talk to me much. He's mean. His nephew hired me, told me he was in an accident years ago. His face is pretty messed up, too. But mostly now, he's just old. He's practically bed-ridden."

It was clear she felt no loyalty or sympathy for the man. She willingly answered all their questions about the household which was mostly just the comings and goings of hired help, servants, grocery deliveries, cooks. She said there was obviously lots of money there. She commented that like most successful men, Henry Ducatel's private persona was quite different from his public one. She thought he was mean, too.

Raylan was disappointed to find out that Jeremy Liles was a crippled old man. How could he be satisfied in bringing somebody down that was already there? But there was still a mystery around the name and he and Earl agreed that Henry Ducatel needed a little attention. It was past eleven when Earl dropped Raylan back at the motel and headed home to his apartment.

Five minutes down the road Earl's phone rang. It was Raylan.

"Tim's not in his room, and he's not answering his phone."

" _Merde!_ " Earl cursed loudly, slipping into some familiar Cajun. He turned the car around. "We just find him and you lose him again?"

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Tim jammed his Beretta in the back of his pants and grabbed his Glock before answering the door. He had talked to Miljana after Raylan and Earl dropped him off at the motel then fallen asleep fully dressed on the bed. He was still only half awake and tried to clear his head, arming himself was just an instinct.

The second knock was even louder.

"Police! Open up!"

The thud of the deadbolt sliding back was what they were waiting for and a team of Lafayette's finest forced the door open, pushing Tim backwards into the room.

"He's got a gun!" one shouted.

The officers were wearing vests and were heavily armed, and all were aiming at Tim. He put his hands up quickly, holding his weapon gingerly with his thumb and first finger, making himself as unthreatening as possible.

"I have two, actually. There's one on my back."

Before he could explain that he was a US Marshal and had licenses for his firearms they were yelling again.

"Throw the gun on the bed and turn around!"

He did what they asked.

"On the floor! Hands on the back of your head!"

He complied. He knew the script by heart.

They yanked his handgun from the back of his pants and cuffed him. He grimaced when they pulled him roughly off the floor, aggravating an old shoulder injury.

"Fellows, I'm a Deputy Marshal…"

He buckled when a rifle butt hit him in the gut. _So it's going to be like this_ , he thought, deciding around gasps to keep his mouth shut and play along for now. They half dragged him out of the room and put him in the back of a waiting cruiser. He just hoped they were taking him to the police station and not some quiet back road. He was relieved when they pulled into a parking lot.

They sat him on a hard chair in an interrogation room and left him with his hands still cuffed behind his back. He leaned forward, laid his face on the table and fell asleep.

An hour later someone kicked the chair and woke him up. Tim sat up and blearily eyed his visitors. He summed up his impressions by labeling them Good Cop and Bad Cop. They were dressed in street clothes, detectives.

Good Cop spread some items out on the table, Tim's compass, map, scope, handguns and the piece of paper with the old man's name and address. The camera wasn't there. Tim frowned then remembered. Raylan had pocketed it at dinner. Small mercies. His badge and wallet weren't there either.

"What were you doing on the bayou?" Bad Cop started the questioning.

Tim wasn't sure whether to try the _I'm a Deputy US Marshal_ line again. He decided not to, hoping to get an idea of what this was all about and who was behind it before changing the game.

"Visiting an old friend. Am I being charged with something?"

"Maybe. What old friend?"

Tim nodded to the paper, hoping he wasn't getting the old guy in trouble.

"Call him," he suggested, bluffing.

They ignored him and pushed the scope forward on the table.

"That's a sniper's scope. Where's the rifle?"

"I haven't got one here."

"Where is it?"

"In Kentucky."

"Then why have the scope in Louisiana?" Good Cop demanded.

"Bird watching."

"Bullshit."

Tim shrugged. They went through each item. Compass? In case I get lost. Topographical map? Same. Why do you have two handguns? I have licenses for those. Where are they? In my wallet. Where's your wallet? In the motel with the rest of my shit. _Including my badge_ , he thought but didn't say out loud. Why was your car parked over on the bayou road for so long?

"Look, I've got some friends you can call. I'm sure they can sort this out and save you a whole lot of trouble."

"You're going to need more than friends unless your friends are lawyers," Bad Cop sneered.

"You're full of shit, and you and I both know it," Tim snapped. "I don't need a lawyer unless you're charging me with something. Are you charging me with something?"

"Maybe. We're thinking about aggravated assault and kidnapping."

"Wow, really? Add that to the murder accusations from a couple of weeks ago and I've had a busy month." Tim rolled his eyes and slumped against the chair.

The men exchanged looks. They were told this would be an easy shake down and they'd get some quick and valuable information about a crime, but this guy was annoyingly calm and seemed a bit amused.

"Hey, here's an idea for you," Tim offered, loading his voice with sarcasm. "Why don't you call over to the Marshals office, see if there are any outstanding warrants with my name on them? Maybe they can order a hold and then you can keep me here _legally_. If not, I'm going to have to insist you charge me with something and do the Miranda thing, and then I shut up and call my lawyer. Anything else and I will still shut up and call my lawyer, and he'll drag you around a bit in some legal shit. I mean, it'd be fun for me…"

"You seem to know a lot about legal procedure for a bird watcher. You involved in crimes in other states maybe?" Bad Cop snarled.

"You obviously have no idea," Tim replied.

Bad Cop didn't know what to make of that.

"So who told you to pick me up?" It was Tim's turn for questions.

"We've had someone come forward with some serious accusations. So I'd suggest you start cooperating. What were you doing on the bayou?"

"Who came forward?"

Good cop tapped the paper with the old man's name and address.

Tim felt his stomach drop. "Is he okay? He'd better be or I'm going back to Kentucky and get my rifle."

"Are you threatening us?" Good Cop demanded.

"Only if you hurt that old man."

"He said _you_ did. He described you and gave us your license plate number," Good Cop said in a low voice. "He's coming in to ID you. So, you can just sit there, you piece of shit, until you've answered some questions."

"Are you officially charging me?"

"Not yet."

"Well then that's option number three, and you get to let me call my lawyer."

"You have a lawyer?" Bad Cop asked disdainfully.

"This is America, dipshit," Tim snapped, getting angry. "Everyone's got a lawyer."

"I mean here in Lafayette, you little fuck."

"I sure do."

"What's his name?"

Tim cocked his head to the side and smiled cheekily. "Henry _fucking_ Ducatel. You know him?"

Tim scanned their faces and was not surprised to see a strong reaction. He didn't know them well enough to discern whether they were just anxious or scared shitless.

"Yeah, you know him," Tim smirked. "Go on. Call him."

The two detectives collected up the items and headed out of the room.

"We'll be back," Good Cop said over his shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable."

Tim watched them leave and sighed. He hoped they were going to take his advice and call the local Marshal. He got up off the chair and laid himself on the floor, working his hands down and around his hips and legs to get the cuffs in front and take the pressure off his sore shoulder. As a sniper, it paid to be flexible. Some of the positions he'd had to work himself into and hold to get a good shot would have been impossible otherwise. He kept it up after he quit the military. Apparently flexibility came in handy even in his new job.

He sat back in the chair, rolled his shoulders and rubbed his eyes and thought about his predicament. Raylan would find him. He wasn't worried about that. But someone had obviously gotten to the old man. He hadn't seen the car, let alone the license plate. He wondered if the old guy had told them he was a Marshal. Tim laid his head on his arms, his thoughts chasing each other, shut his eyes and fell asleep again.

* * *

It took Raylan and Earl twenty minutes to track Tim down. Raylan had the night clerk at the motel unlock Tim's room when he wouldn't answer the phone and they found it empty, except for clothes. The clerk said he'd seen the police take someone away in handcuffs and Earl got on the radio. Raylan sauntered into the precinct, made some inquiries and waltzed right into the interrogation room, ignoring the protests from the officers and waking Tim up.

"I thought I told you to stay put," Raylan scolded him.

"I got bored waiting. Thought I'd drum up some excitement."

"So this is you excited?"

Tim yawned. "I guess I fell asleep again."

"Have you been tested for narcolepsy?"

The two detectives stormed in, indignant and officious. Raylan cut them off before they could start, going on the offensive.

"This man is a Deputy US Marshal. Why is he in handcuffs? Has he been charged with something?" he launched at them, leaving them gaping. "Tim, where's your badge?"

"In the motel room with my wallet."

"No one found a badge," Good Cop sputtered.

"Well, it was there," Tim said lethargically.

"How did you get your hands in front?" Bad Cop demanded.

"I'm Houdini," Tim quipped.

"If someone in your precinct has Tim's star, well, that's theft. I hate to go there, so let's assume maybe it was misplaced?" Raylan suggested. "On the other hand, if it was purposely withheld…"

The detectives stood and stared at Raylan.

He raised his eyebrows and made shooing motions at them. "Well, go on. Go look for it."

When they left he walked over to the table and unlocked the handcuffs. Tim rubbed his wrists and grimaced.

"Thanks."

Raylan pulled up a chair.

"What's going on?"

"It's the old fellow, the one that gave me a ride across the bayou," Tim explained. "Either he's not the nice guy I thought he was, or someone's threatening him. He's accusing me of attacking him…I think. And before you ask, no, I didn't. He even gave me his name and address so I'd go visit him later."

There was a commotion in the main office and Raylan turned around. Two police officers were escorting the old man into the precinct. Tim looked up through the window of the room and they made eye contact. The old fellow looked upset. Tim smiled and mouthed, _it's okay_.

"He doesn't look very afraid of you," Raylan commented, watching the man's reaction at seeing Tim. "Stay put. I'll go chat with him."

The detectives blocked Raylan from getting closer to the desk where the old man was giving his statement. One of them held out Tim's Marshals star.

"You have no jurisdiction here," Good Cop said. "You can stay in the other room."

"Tell you what, gentlemen, you let me have a chat with the witness and I won't ask where you found this," Raylan responded, taking Tim's badge from them.

He didn't wait for their reply he just brushed past them and pulled up a chair next to the old man. The officer taking his statement hesitated.

"Carry on," Raylan insisted with a wave of his hand. "Just pretend I'm not here."

The officer looked at the two detectives who shrugged helplessly. Raylan smiled all around.

"Uh, you were going to give me a description," the officer prompted.

The old man looked down at his hands, clearly distressed, then over at Raylan.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly.

"Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. I work with Tim," he answered, purposely using his partner's first name, "but that wouldn't stop me from seeing justice served if he hurt you, Mr. …"

"Penn, Toby Penn."

"…Mr. Penn," Raylan finished. "Are you feeling threatened? 'Cause I can offer you protective custody if you are."

"But aren't you from Kentucky, too?" Toby asked.

"Yes, Mr. Penn, I am. US Marshals have federal jurisdiction."

The detectives didn't like the turn the conversation was taking.

"You gave us a description, Mr. Penn, which included a wrist tattoo," Good Cop interjected. He pointed to the room where Tim was sitting. "That man has a tattoo on his wrist."

"Why don't you bring Deputy Gutterson out here and let Mr. Penn have a look at it," suggested Raylan. "It's important to be certain."

"I didn't see it very well," Toby hedged.

"I'll take a picture of it," snapped Bad Cop and he stomped back into the interrogation room.

Mr. Penn watched the proceedings, turned to Raylan and asked, "Does he have a camera?"

"He's probably using his phone," Raylan replied.

"His phone?"

Bad Cop came back and thrust his phone at Toby. Toby just stared. Raylan took it and held it for him, showing him the display with the picture of Tim's tattoo. The man's face crumpled, his expression changing from anxious to sad. He reached out and touched the picture then straightened his shoulders and looked up at the detective.

"That's not it," he said defiantly.

"It has to be. You said yourself you didn't get a good look at it," Good Cop coaxed.

"Nope. That's _not_ the man that threatened me," Toby insisted, pointing over at Tim. "Can I go now?"

"Are you dropping the charges?" Good Cop asked.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry for the trouble. It was a mistake," he said, visibly gaining confidence. "If I see the other guy around, I'll let you know."

Raylan stretched his legs out, leaned back in his chair and looked up at the detectives.

"Anything else you want to accuse Deputy Gutterson of while he's here?" he asked. "I'll wait."

Bad Cop turned and stormed out of the room.

"I'll have someone drive you home," the officer at the desk suggested to Toby.

"If it's not a problem, I'd like you to drive me home," Toby said turning to Raylan.

Raylan smiled kindly. "It'd be my pleasure."

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

"I'm sorry," Toby said.

He was waiting outside with Raylan while Earl kept an eye on Tim, ensuring there was no further trouble, and spoke up as soon as the younger Marshal came through the front doors. Tim looked at Toby in surprise. He didn't feel there was any need for the man to apologize and said so.

"I think I'm the one who should be saying sorry for getting you into all this," Tim responded, he had his hands jammed in his pockets and was shuffling some pebbles with his feet. "I bet you'll think twice before rescuing strangers in the swamp now."

Toby grinned. "Young man, that just doesn't happen that often."

Tim grinned back. "I suppose not."

Earl offered to take Toby back to his apartment for the night and Tim and Raylan nodded their encouragement. It was late and nobody felt it wise for Toby to go home alone. Earl drove the Kentucky Marshals back to the motel, Tim in the back with the old man. Toby reached over and tapped Tim's forearm.

"Marine sniper," Toby stated, indicating Tim's tattoo.

"I was in the Rangers, actually," Tim corrected. "My buddies and I got this when we completed the Marine Scout training."

"No better training than Marine training," Toby beamed.

He rolled up his sleeve and showed off his art, a skeleton with a rifle. "Marine sniper in Vietnam," he said proudly.

Tim admired it and nodded in appreciation. "Murder Inc. Next you're going to tell me you're Hathcock," he teased.

"Ha," Toby chortled. "Hardly. I met him, though."

"How many tours did you do?"

"Two. One in a regular squad, one as a sniper. I got out right after. Didn't like it much," he answered. "It was different being a shooter back then. No one wanted to know us. I don't tell nobody hardly, but I thought you'd understand."

"I get it," Tim assured him. "PR's better now, thanks to Hollywood, I guess. You don't need to hide it anymore, that you're a sniper."

"Do you?" Toby asked.

Tim couldn't answer, but it made him think. Did he? If he was honest with himself, yes, but for different reasons.

Toby was quiet for a moment then he turned back to Tim and said, "I don't know why I let them scare me today. It's not like they could take anything away from me, not really."

Tim pressed his lips together and looked out the window. It had started to rain and the light reflected in the water drops on the windows, moving like tracers in the dark, falling in arcs as the car moved along the street. As hard as it had been for him to adjust coming back home after Afghanistan, he didn't have people spitting at him for his part in the war.

Miljana had told him that the support you received was a crucial element in your ability to cope with any trauma, your odds of being able to manage the PTSD. He wondered how it had been for Toby. He'd heard tales about how the Vietnam snipers were treated, not just by the civilian population, but by the other soldiers as well. Murder, Inc., they'd labeled them, feared them and despised them as cold-blooded killers even as they'd relied on them to deal with the Vietcong snipers in the hills.

He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to crawl into a corner, wishing for a glass of bourbon and his girl. Emotions he didn't like to admit having flooded in, unwanted and uninvited, and he worked hard for a moment to chase them away.

When Earl dropped them off, Tim turned to Toby and promised him a good talk in the morning over breakfast. Maybe he could coax some stories out of him if there was time. But right now he needed some sleep. He hoped it would come peacefully.

* * *

The Marshals quickly realized they had an ally in Toby Penn. He was tired of the Liles family bullying the folks on the bayou and wanted to help. He squared his shoulders over his breakfast and swore he'd do whatever they asked if it meant bringing down the Liles clan.

He remembered a younger, healthier Jeremy Liles and he knew and distrusted Henry Ducatel, though he had no grounding for it. He described for the Marshals the men that came to his place the previous day at dinner to threaten him, and he was ashamed to find out that one of them was a former Marine.

"Yup, that's him," he said, shaking his head in disbelief when they showed him the photo. "But maybe you boys heard wrong."

Tim couldn't or wouldn't bend the truth to save the old man's feelings so Raylan did it for him.

"Maybe we did," he agreed. "It wouldn't be the first time someone's lied to us. It's a hazard of the job."

Art called early and confirmed that the investigators had a federal warrant out on the Marine, now their prime suspect in Paul Welland's murder case, and gave them permission to chase it provided they promised not to get lost again. His nerves couldn't take it.

He spoke briefly with Earl as well.

"Art suggested I find you a rifle if we're going to do anything reckless," Earl said to Tim as he handed Raylan's phone back.

Tim and Toby both grinned.

"Are you any good with a rifle?" Toby inquired cheekily. "Maybe you've lost your edge."

"Maybe you've lost yours, but I don't miss," Tim responded, feigning indignation at the man's gall in asking.

Toby laughed at the expression on Tim's face, then turned to Raylan and asked eagerly, "What now?"

"Now," said Raylan, "we take our federal warrant, our illegally-gotten photos and your testimony to a judge, add a little whining and pleading, and turn it into a search warrant for the Liles house. Then we get a squad together and raid the place."

"You make it sound so easy," Earl commented.

"Do you think we can find a judge that will cooperate?" Tim asked, worried for Toby.

Raylan looked at Earl. "You've got the home field advantage, Earl. Anyone you'd recommend?"

"Aw, hell," Earl groaned. "Just the one judge I'd rather steer clear of."

Raylan grinned over at Tim. "Apparently Lafayette's got a Reardon."

* * *

"So how exactly did you get these photos?" the Judge queried, waving a shot of Ducatel holding an AK-47.

Raylan and Earl looked like school boys at the principal's office. They were standing in front of the desk of Judge Zebulon Pike Delaney, presenting their case.

The Judge was named for General Zebulon Pike, purportedly one of his ancestors. The original Zebulon Pike was an American General in the War of 1812 and one of the surveyors of the parcel of land bought by the Americans in the famous Louisiana Purchase, the deal with the French that saw over 800,000 square miles sold to the US for a steal, 42¢ per acre in present value dollars. While searching for the source of the Mississippi River, Pike ended up captured by the Spanish and kicking up his heels in Chihuahua, Mexico. Raylan and Earl learned all this in the first half hour of their meeting with the Judge, though for Earl it was more of a refresher.

"Crazy fools, the French. But they shouldn't have let Napoleon battle his way around Europe. I mean, really, the arrogance of the man taking on Russia, too. His eyes were too big for his country's debt," Delaney expounded. "War is expensive."

Earl and Raylan had patiently listened to the biography of General Pike, then they diplomatically steered the Judge back to the problem of a search warrant for the Liles property. Delaney was meticulously reviewing their evidence and was now questioning the origin of the photos.

Earl mumbled something about the pictures being taken by a concerned citizen and Raylan fidgeted with his hat.

"Oh, hell. I don't really care how you got them. I'll give you your warrant. There's nothing I'd like more than to see Henry Ducatel cut down a notch. Don't trust no southern lawyer," Delaney declared.

"I think you can safely leave out the adjective," Raylan responded.

Delaney barked out a laugh at the comment. "Truth is Marshal, he's my only competition for the Senate seat. A little mud on him would be good for my campaign. I hate the slimy bastard. But seriously, I think you've got enough here if the man, Penn, can identify the Marine on this federal warrant. He's a good witness?"

"Yes, Judge Delaney, he's very reliable," Earl assured him.

"Well, then, go get him, boys."

"Yeehaw," Raylan whispered as they closed the door to Delaney's chambers. "Quite a character."

"What's Reardon like?" Earl inquired.

"He wears a Speedo under his robes."

"Anything else?" Earl asked, shocked.

"Attitude and socks."

* * *

Tim had taken Toby back to his house to pick up some clothes while Earl and Raylan dealt with the warrant. They met back at Earl's office to discuss strategy. Toby was thoroughly enjoying himself. The Marshals didn't want to just pick up the Marine, they wanted Ducatel as well. They agreed that the best plan was to set up surveillance again and see if they could catch the crew moving weapons and then call in a team with the search warrant.

Tim volunteered to head back into the Atchafalaya Wildlife Refuge. It was public property and gave them a good view of the Liles's dock from the water. Raylan and Earl could organize the team of Marshals. They only had to decide what to do with their star witness, Toby.

"I can go with Tim," he offered. "I know that bayou better than any of Ducatel's men and I have a boat."

_Not a very fast one_ , thought Tim, but out loud he agreed. "Toby's right. His boat's quiet and I could use a spotter. He's trained for this sort of thing and it would be as safe a place to hide him as any."

Earl signed out a rifle for Tim, got him a new phone and a better camera and supplied radios. They finalized the details and Toby and Tim headed out after dark to set up.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

During his career with the military, Tim was rarely alone unless he was on leave. It had been a tough adjustment for him at first, having spent so much time on his own growing up, but by the end of his training he couldn't imagine anything else. Add on his years of combat service where snipers always moved in groups of two or more and he found himself in the bizarre position of having to adjust back to the solitude of civilian life. It was a particular problem when he started acting as a sniper for the Marshals Service. He always set up alone. Perched by himself on a rooftop or in a forest he was constantly looking over his shoulder, his ears nervously straining for the sound of an approaching enemy. It had been four years now and he still couldn't shake the twitching.

Consequently, having Toby beside him in their nest in the swamp was a familiar comfort. Tim appreciated the company. Toby would offer him coffee or a sandwich, having insisted on packing a good supply of food, or reminisce about Vietnam and ask about Afghanistan. They chuckled over the challenge of finding places to take a crap while on patrol and described their best and worst hides, their best and worst officers, their best and worst shots.

Toby talked about his wife, killed in a car accident twenty years past. Tim told him about Miljana. Toby cajoled and teased until Tim confessed to him what he'd hardly admitted to himself, that he'd like to maybe, possibly marry her one day. The old man shook his head and asked him what the hell he was waiting for. Tim didn't have an answer. He adjusted his cap nervously, scratching his head and smoothing his hair, and tried to change the subject. But Toby wasn't having it and chased him verbally for most of an hour.

"But how do you know?" Tim finally asked. "Seriously, how do you _know_?"

"Two things, young man," Toby replied. "You just got to ask yourself these two things." He lowered the scope and turned to look at Tim. This conversation deserved serious attention. He counted off on his fingers, "First, are you a better man around her? Second, does she make your life easier? If the answer to the first is _yes_ and the answer to the second is _yes_ then get off your stupid ass and marry her."

Toby put his eye back on the scope, but continued the lesson. "Now if the answer to either is _no_ , then get the hell out of there, quick. Time's too short to waste with the wrong woman."

"You didn't include 'do you like her' or 'do you find her attractive'," Tim snorted.

"Well, I just assumed. If you don't and she's living with you then you're a moron," Toby retorted.

Tim laughed and filed the advice away for later and Toby rounded out the conversation by worming a promise out of him to bring her down for a visit.

By 2am it was obvious nothing was happening that night, so Tim suggested that Toby shut his eyes for a couple of hours. Toby turned to him in a huff.

"Old men don't need as much sleep as young men. Why don't you take a rest? I'll wake you if I see anything."

Tim agreed just to please him. He'd stopped thinking about Toby as the _old man_ sometime that night _._ He wasn't that old, just well used, and he was proving to be a spry assistant on this stake-out.

* * *

Tim predicted that they wouldn't have long to wait for Ducatel to come back to move another shipment from the dock. The first time he had run surveillance on the Liles property and been chased across the bayou by the dogs, he'd slept only sporadically on the opposite shore. He spent a good part of the night watching the men load weapons on the boat and finally motor downstream to the coast. They had only made one trip and Tim had estimated that less than half the crates could have fit, meaning the outbuilding was still stocked with weapons and Ducatel would be anxious to move them, wary of the Marshals' sudden interest.

Raylan and Earl had agreed with Tim's assessment of the situation and though the first night with Toby was quiet, they had hopes for the second. They weren't disappointed.

The next evening Tim heard cars pull onto the property and ten minutes later Ducatel and his girlfriend came out the back door arguing. Tim felt like he was watching a bad play a second time, only the actors were more exuberant in their roles. She was screaming at him this time, and this time he didn't just turn around and hit her, he grabbed her by the hair, pulled a gun and shoved it in her face. She shrank down, cowering while he spoke in her ear. Then he backhanded her again, but with the pistol this time, and this time she went down harder and took longer getting up.

Toby cursed and turned to Tim. "Did you see what he did? Can't you just shoot him?" he demanded.

Tim shook his head. He wouldn't, not yet. They needed to see the Marine on the property before they could make a move. But it was an easy shot and Tim prayed Ducatel would give him the opportunity later. For now, he settled for firing off a few choice expletives. He watched the girlfriend struggle to her feet and stumble into the house holding her hand to her face, bleeding.

Ducatel, unmoved, strode down to the outbuilding, unlocked it and went inside. Tim radioed Raylan and told him to get ready to scratch that itch. He listened to the girlfriend's car pull out and speed off down the road.

Two hours passed before Tim heard a boat engine rumbling downstream. Toby poked him five minutes after that.

"Hear the boat?" he whispered excitedly.

Tim nodded, looked at his rifle and thought about hearing protection.

Two cars pulled in, continued past the house and down the grass lane leading to the outbuilding and parked. Ducatel came out to meet them. Tim looked down his scope, identified the Marine and contacted Raylan just as the boat approached the dock.

Raylan spoke briefly to Tim, signed off and gave Earl the thumbs up.

The team was set up down the road and moved in swiftly. Earl had called in support from his Marshals Office and had handpicked trusted deputies from the Lafayette Parish Sheriff's department for the raid. They drove straight down to the water, cutting off the laneway and had the men on the dock quickly surrounded.

The two men in the boat gunned it, swamping the dock, hoping to make a run for it on the water. Tim put two rounds into the engine. It smoked and spluttered and finally died less than 20 yards from a police boat that had come up from the main river.

It was over in less than ten minutes, with only a few shots fired and no one injured. Raylan had the pleasure of handcuffing Ducatel and reading him his rights.

"Too bad about the wet shoes," Raylan said to him, shaking his head and tut-tutting. "They look expensive."

"They're alligator," Ducatel replied calmly, coldly. "I shot him myself. I'll have some free time in a couple of days. I'll take you for ride on the bayou and introduce you to his cousins."

"I appreciate the hospitality, Henry," Raylan smiled, pretending not to hear the threat. "But I think you'll be busy this week. Why don't I come back, say, in a few years?"

* * *

Earl was waiting at the dock when Tim and Toby pulled in.

"Well, now," he smiled contentedly. "A good night's work. Let's just hope something sticks on him."

"Where's Raylan?" Tim asked, stepping up beside Earl and turning to give Toby a hand out of the boat.

"Up at the house. He wanted a word with Mr. Liles," Earl replied.

Tim nodded. He could have guessed. He left Toby with Earl and marched over to the outbuilding where the deputies were checking the weapons cache. He stopped the first Marshal he saw.

"Did you find any grenades?" he asked anxiously.

Tim was aware that the gunrunning laws had little teeth without proof that the weapons in question were actually showing up in another country. They would try, but it was unlikely they'd be able to lay any charges for that, and you could own as many AK-47s as you wanted. Possession of hand grenades, however, was a felony. Ducatel wouldn't be able to buy his way out of that.

"You betcha," the Marshal grinned.

Tim returned the grin and left them to it. He jogged up to the house following Raylan, curious himself about Liles.

He walked in through the back into a large kitchen. The room was spotless, antiseptic, and for the first time in his career as a Marshal Tim worried briefly about his muddy boots. Two men from the Sheriff's department were leaning against the counter, chatting. A women and a man, domestic help maybe, sat at the table, heads down, nervously working their hands. One of the deputies looked over when Tim walked in and nodded a greeting.

"Staff?" Tim asked, indicating the two at the table.

"Illegals," the deputy answered.

Tim looked a little closer, sympathetic, and smiled at them encouragingly. They were Mexican he figured, older, scared. He was pleased that the deputies hadn't handcuffed them.

"Are you looking for the cowboy?" one of the deputies asked.

"Yep."

He indicated down the hall with his head and turned back to the conversation with his partner.

Tim wandered down the hall peering in the rooms. The house was beautiful, recently renovated, lavishly furnished. He spotted Raylan in what was probably once the front parlor remade into a bedroom. It was nicely done but there was no mistaking its purpose, it was a hospital room with a hospital bed.

Raylan was standing with his hat in his hand staring at the room's only other occupant. Tim tried to read the expression on Raylan's face but he was giving nothing away. Leaning against the door frame, Tim adjusted his hold on his rifle and waited patiently. Eventually Raylan shifted his feet and sighed heavily, turned and acknowledged Tim.

"Hey," Raylan said simply.

"Hey," Tim responded.

Raylan motioned to the figure on the bed. "They said he's gone downhill these past few months."

"Uh-huh."

Jeremy Liles opened his eyes at that moment, as if he heard the comment and wanted to deny his infirmity. He focused up at Raylan.

"Who are you?" he breathed.

Raylan looked at him for a moment, then deliberately put his hat back on and raised his eyebrows. "Recognize me now?" he asked.

Liles smiled weakly and coughed. "Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens," he wheezed or laughed, it was hard to tell which. "I finally get to meet you, my best employee." Now he was definitely chuckling.

Raylan grimaced and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Yep, clever of you to hire me and not tell me. You didn't have to pay out any benefits."

"Indeed, all the benefits were mine," the old man taunted. "I wasn't finished with Tommy Bucks yet, but what the hell. He was nothing special and it was a fine opportunity. Everyone thought I hired you and I encouraged the rumor. It really got me some cheap obedience."

"I'll bet."

"I'm surprised you're not dead yet," Liles commented. He said it without malice, just a considered statement. "Maybe you'll end up like me, old and decrepit."

"I don't think so. Tim here'll shoot me before it gets to that," Raylan said.

He had nothing more to say and nothing more to learn. He turned away and walked out, leaving Liles alone. Out in the hall he looked over at Tim and nodded to his rifle, "You'd do that for me, right?"

"I'd have to live that long, Raylan. I'm using up my luck pretty quickly hanging around you."

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

 

* * *

Raylan, Earl and Tim sat in an office at the courthouse with staff from the District and US Attorneys' offices. The Assistant US Attorney was at the top of the vaguely-defined pecking order and was leading the meeting. They all wanted the same thing, to see Henry Ducatel behind bars. Even so, at times it seemed they were all in a boat paddling in different directions, getting nowhere fast.

The three Marshals were surprisingly patient. Navigating the tangle that is the law was part of their job. Resignation and the calm acceptance of disappointment were part of each man's skill set.

"We have a file this thick on Henry Ducatel," the AUSA stated in annoyance, stretching his arms wide to emphasis the point. "Why wasn't I brought in on this from the start?"

Earl shifted in his seat and took point for the Marshals Service. "Our first objective was clearing the federal warrant on the ex-Marine," he explained calmly. "It was just coincidence that Ducatel and the weapons were present when we went in."

It was clear that the AUSA didn't believe a word Earl said.

"Call Judge Delaney, he'll confirm that the search warrant was for the capture of the man on the federal warrant," Earl added.

"I know what was on the warrant. I just find the timing…interesting. Your raid has probably set us back years," the AUSA complained.

"Alright, we confess," Raylan offered. "We were hoping to land Ducatel, too. It seemed wise to keep this as contained as possible considering the man's reach. He or Liles has influenced events from Miami to San Diego to Nicaragua. And we know for a fact he has law enforcement on his payroll right here in Lafayette."

"Maybe I'm missing something," Tim said, speaking up for the first time. "But isn't a crateful of grenades enough to charge Ducatel with, regardless of why or how we arrested him?"

"Yes, it would be normally. And for your information, the AKs were fully automatic, also illegal," the AUSA confirmed, "but he's denying any knowledge of them."

"I saw him handle them," Tim responded.

"It's just your word against his. You know we can't use the photos. The weapons were never out of the crate the night you arrested him. The other men are backing Ducatel's story. They're saying he was chasing them off the property, that he had nothing to do with anything."

"So," Raylan shrugged, undeterred. "It's Jeremy Liles's property. Let's go after him. The man may be infirm but he's as sharp as a tack and guilty as sin."

The DA and the AUSA exchanged a look.

"You say in your report that you spoke to Jeremy Liles," the District Attorney commented.

"That's right."

"That can't be," the DA replied. "I have a copy of his Death Certificate on file from a while back."

"I could probably dig you up a Death Certificate for Santa Claus," Raylan commented. "Wouldn't make it real. That man knew things only Jeremy Liles would know."

The DA scratched his head and made a note in his file.

"Who owns the property then, if Liles is dead, supposedly," asked Tim.

"Henry Ducatel is the sole beneficiary for Liles's estate," the DA answered. "But before you get all excited, the will hasn't cleared probate yet."

Raylan stared at him, confused. "You said you've had the Death Certificate for a while. What's the date on it?"

"2004."

There was a pause around the table.

"And it's still in probate?" Raylan questioned.

"There's been a petition of objection filed."

"If Ducatel's the only one named in the will, he's the only one who can contest it," Raylan stated, still not understanding. "He's kept it in court all this time?"

"He's a lawyer," the DA replied as if that answered everything. "All he has to do is keep paying the cost to file. We've been keeping an eye on the proceedings. Ducatel's used anything and everything to delay the probate clearance. He's even contested the authenticity of the Death Certificate."

"Well, no shit," Raylan responded.

"What a great way to hide," Tim said.

Everyone around the table nodded.

"It's very clever," agreed the AUSA. "No one has clear title to the property."

"Well, let's go chat with the old man in the house, Mr. Liles or whoever he is," Raylan suggested.

"I guess you haven't heard," the DA said.

"Heard what?" asked Tim.

Raylan unconsciously brought his hands up to his ears, not wanting the news. It wasn't going to change anything if he listened or not but he couldn't help trying to ward it off for a little while.

"The elderly man that you spoke with, the one you say is Jeremy Liles, he had a stroke last night. He's in the hospital on life support."

"Shit," Raylan punctuated, throwing up his arms in defeat. "Ducatel's going to walk."

"And thanks to you, he's going to be a lot more careful now," the AUSA added.

Tim cocked his head. "Just how much more careful could he possibly get?"

* * *

Raylan and Earl attended the initial court appearances for the men who were being charged from the night raid. Henry Ducatel sat in the public gallery idly watching, he turned to smile at them when his charges were dismissed.

Walking past, he leaned over to Raylan and said, "Well, Marshal, shall I find you an alligator?"

"My condolences about your uncle," Raylan responded. "I bet you're going to miss him. He was the brains behind your business, wasn't he?"

Raylan had shot blindly, but Ducatel's smugness faltered slightly and Raylan knew he'd hit a bullseye. It was just a matter of time before Ducatel slipped up without his uncle's guidance. Raylan was determined to be there when it happened.

Tim forwent the pleasure of sitting through court and took Toby up to Earl's office to lay out his options for witness protection and start the paperwork. He wasn't surprised when Toby declined.

"Young man, I've lived in that house my whole life. I'm not going to up and leave now. Like I said before, what could Henry Ducatel possibly take from me that I haven't already lost?"

He paused, looking thoughtful, and Tim hoped he was having second thoughts, but he shook it off.

"I expect to see you and your girl for a visit before long, though," he added cheerfully.

Tim knew it was useless to argue so he forced a smile and nodded.

They met Earl and Raylan coming out of the courtroom. Tim recognized the look on Raylan's face, one he usually reserved for dealings with Arlo. He shook his head at Tim, warning him to leave off any sarcasm, strode past and outside.

It had been a long day and the light was gray heading into evening, reflecting the melancholy mood of the four. They stood on the sidewalk, at a loss what to do.

"Shit, I left my hat in the courtroom," Raylan grumbled. He shook his head and turned around, the day had been frustrating enough and he couldn't remember the last time he left his hat anywhere unless it was on purpose.

He had just moved inside the doors when he heard gunfire, automatic weapon, close. He ran back out front, sidearm drawn. Earl, Toby and Tim were on the ground and Raylan had a clean shot and took it. The man with the weapon dropped. Raylan moved quickly to the gunman and slid the weapon out of his reach, an AK-47. He was still moving. Squatting beside him, Raylan holstered his handgun and pulled him up by the shirt.

"Who hired you?" he snapped. Raylan was not going to let an opportunity pass to get Henry Ducatel.

The gunman was coughing up blood from a chest wound. He might live, he might not. Raylan couldn't care less.

"Who hired you!" he repeated.

The man looked up at Raylan, face contorted.

"Jeremy Liles," he whispered.

Disgusted, Raylan let him drop back onto the sidewalk, rolled him over and cuffed him. He wondered at the same time why no one was leaning over his shoulder. Looking back he cursed. The other three were still down. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, running back to them.

Toby's eyes were wild and wide open. Raylan had to pull Tim off of him. Earl wasn't moving where he lay.

Toby rolled to his knees and crawled over to Tim. His hands shaking, he tried to find a pulse. Raylan gently moved Toby's arm away and tried himself. He could feel something.

"Talk to him," he ordered, and moved on.

Raylan knelt down beside Earl and rolled him over. He couldn't find a pulse and started CPR. He could hear the ambulance sirens and Toby's desperate mumbling behind him.

Time crawled but an hour had passed. Raylan stood on the sidewalk, watching the ambulance speed away from the front of the courthouse. He had suggested that Toby go with Tim, leaving him with the task of waiting on the coroner and dealing with the locals. For a while he just breathed, ignoring the next steps. There was a commotion around him, police radios, muffled voices, boots on pavement, the hushed whispers of gawkers. He shut it out and listened to his own breathing, in, out.

He got on the phone to Art.

"Raylan?"

"Tim and Earl were just gunned down outside the courthouse."

There was silence on the line while Art waited for the rest of it.

"I'm sorry, Art. Earl's dead."

"Tim?"

"He's hanging on. You might want to come down."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

_And so here we are_ , thinks Raylan, _and for what?_ There's no more itch, just numbness.

Toby has been with him at the hospital for the last 18 hours. Raylan doesn't dare let him out of his sight. He's still upset that Tim took a bullet for him. He feels it should have been the other way around. He talks about it constantly.

They go together to the airport and wait at arrivals. Toby looks every one of his 70 years today. Raylan suspects he didn't sleep well last night, he knows he didn't.

He sees them coming down the hallway and stands up. He turns and makes sure Toby is okay to stand, too. Art dwarfs her, gets to them first with his big strides. Miljana hangs back. She looks lost.

"Any news?" Art asks.

Raylan shakes his head. "Nothing's changed."

"Well, that's okay then, I guess."

Art moves to collect up Miljana and take her to the car, but Toby is already there. The old man reaches out and touches her face and she starts to sob. He puts his arms around her, feels her droop, and he cries, too.

Art blinks, looks at the floor. Raylan watches the rest of the passengers coming off the plane.

* * *

Toby has taken charge of Miljana. He leads her into the hospital and up to the ward where Tim is laying, all tubes and beeps and pale. She sits down and thinks this is familiar, reaches over and holds Tim's hand. Toby gently rubs her arm and explains what happened. She looks over at him and smiles warmly and nods.

_Good girl_ , thinks Raylan.

Art watches them for a minute then quietly says, "Jesus, Raylan. Was it worth it?" He pauses to think, not meaning to make it sound like an accusation, gives Raylan's shoulder a pat. "So who the hell is Jeremy Liles? Did you ever find that out?"

Raylan sighs. "It's a long story, Art. First, let me introduce you to him."

He takes Art to the long-term care ward and stops at a bed.

"Jeremy Liles," he says, indicating a wasted, ghost of a man, so frail he's almost flat on the bed, tied to more tubes than their Deputy downstairs, only a pull of the plug away from judgment.

"You're kidding." Art's reaction would be comical under different circumstances.

"I know. It seems crazy. Let me tell you the story." Raylan begins, "When I was in Miami last month…"

Earl's friends and family are holding a party for him later in the evening, more suitable for the man than a formal viewing, the funeral tomorrow. They have time to kill before they have to be there, so Raylan weaves the tale for Art. He starts with a name, Paul Welland, surfacing in Miami, repeats his adventures in San Diego with Tim, fills in the details of Tim's surveillance, and ends with the raid on the Liles property, the courthouse meeting, the shooting.

"Well, shit," Art curses. "And Ducatel goes free."

"Well, no, not exactly. His girlfriend was waiting for him when he got home from the courthouse yesterday. She shot him dead. Emptied an entire magazine into him. She's been arrested."

Art stares at him sadly and shakes his head. "This is just plain ugly."

"I can't wait to tell Tim about Ducatel and his girlfriend," Raylan says. "He'll love the irony."

"Do the doctors think he'll be okay?" Art asks, hopeful.

"He'll be fine," Raylan insists forcefully. He needs to convince himself.

* * *


	14. Epilogue

 

 

 

* * *

Art visits Tim at the hospital early the next day. Tim has come around and they have a conversation of sorts. It puts Art's mind at rest before he and Raylan have to catch their flight back to Lexington. Rachel's good, but even so Art doesn't feel she should have to run the office short by three for too long. He worries briefly about leaving Miljana alone in Louisiana, but Toby proves so solicitous that it's clear Art's concerns are unfounded. She has already moved into Toby's house by the second night and he is happily chauffeuring her around Lafayette, keeping her company in the hospital and at meals.

She recognizes that it's a mutual need; she appreciates the support and he's anxious to help. The two are emotionally invested in the man in the hospital and it makes them instant friends.

At the end of a week, Toby takes her out on his boat at Tim's insistence, and gives her a tour of the bayou, pointing out items of interest, the Liles property, his and Tim's hide, an alligator. She is an excellent audience and draws out stories of his Louisiana childhood, his marriage, his time in Vietnam. The friendship is sealed when he takes her to his favorite Cajun restaurant and she tries everything on his plate, too.

A few days later, Toby drives them to the airport. He had offered to let them stay longer, let Tim rest a few more days before traveling, but Miljana has to get back to work and Tim's been away from Lexington for so long he's afraid he might not recognize his house. It's an emotional parting, but Miljana promises they'll be back for the Creole Festival in the fall and Toby lets them go.

Tim's surprised to see Art waiting for them at the airport in Kentucky.

"Well, I'm already over budget for medical leave in my bureau," he says, explaining his presence. "And with your luck, Tim, you'd end up in a car bombing or a drive-by shooting or an alien abduction or something, somewhere between the airport and your house. In fact, I was thinking you should consider dumping the psychologist and finding a nurse to date."

"I kind of like the psychologist," Tim replies. "Maybe you could hire me a bodyguard instead."

"Raylan's available," Art offers.

"I'll look for a nurse." Tim turns to Miljana and shrugs. "Sorry, sweetheart."

* * *

Raylan pulls into the yard at the diner, sits in the car and looks out the window at the midsummer's dream. It's as beautiful as always here. Limehouse has his drum barbecue going this afternoon and is sweating over it happily, chatting with neighbors. He notices the Marshal sitting in his car and gives him a piercing look, carrying with it something Raylan can't quite get the measure of, sympathy or maybe empathy. Limehouse passes his scepter, his long-handled flipper, to a younger man beside him, passes with it some instructions and strolls unhurriedly over to the car. Raylan opens the door and steps out to meet him.

As he stands up a cool breeze smooths itself over his face and he's pulled back to the time he was in this same spot with Tim. It wasn't that long ago, just over a month, but it seems a whole lot longer.

Raylan had no intention when he set out for Harlan this morning of ending up in Noble's Holler, but his hands had steered him here after a conversation with Boyd on another matter and now he realizes that he needs to talk to Limehouse. He's someone who would understand what happened in Louisiana, maybe shed some light on his feelings, offer up some closure with some barbecue. It seems an odd choice for Raylan, coming to Limehouse for consolation, yet here he is.

"Marshal," Limehouse greets him, stopping beside his car.

"Mr. Limehouse," Raylan returns and offers a hand to shake.

Limehouse looks surprised but takes the gesture at face value and returns it. It's the first time Raylan has ever shaken his hand that he can remember.

"How's that young sniper doing?" he asks.

Raylan snaps his eyes to Limehouse's face, ready to be angry at the insolence, but sees only sincere concern and lowers his hackles.

"Recovering," he answers, wondering how Limehouse knows about Tim. "He's at home now."

"I'm pleased to hear it. I like that young man. Cool head. Could use his talents around here," Limehouse adds smiling mischievously.

Raylan raises an eyebrow at the idea. "Definitely a cool head," is all the response he offers.

Raylan can't keep his eyes focused on any one spot. They dart to Limehouse and over to the late afternoon gathering, to the ground at his feet, up to the tree canopy. Limehouse just stands and watches the struggle, amazed that a man so light with words when talking about business is sinking under the weight of discussing his thoughts.

"The lessons keep coming, Marshal," Limehouse finally offers, "even at my age. I don't doubt I'll still be learning when I take my last breath."

With that statement, Raylan realizes that Limehouse knows all about Louisiana. He's not really surprised. He's pretty sure he has contacts there. "Thanks for not saying _I told you so_."

"Why waste the words," Limehouse replies. "From what I understand, you don't need telling."

Raylan nods.

"I recall a lawyer saying, _'If you want to catch the devil, you got to go to hell'_ or something like that."

"Or something like that," Raylan agrees.

"But you know now, don't you? You ain't never gonna catch the devil," Limehouse states. "'Cause he ain't just one man."

Raylan's gaze follows the smoke curling up from the barbecue, catching the breeze and fanning out, disappearing.

"You want a bite?"

"Sure thing," says Raylan.

"Maybe a drink first? We can toast the demise of a rumor."

"You really believe we'll never hear the name Jeremy Liles again?" asks Raylan.

"Heh," Limehouse chuckles and leads Raylan toward the diner. "Can't promise you that, Marshal."

* * *

Miljana pushes the gate open with her foot, swinging two bags of groceries and her work satchel. She notices Tim asleep on the porch, tiptoes up the steps and sets the bags down to open the door just enough to squeeze through, avoiding the squeak in the hinge at the halfway point. She closes it as quietly, kicks off her shoes and barefoots it to the kitchen.

She changes out of her work clothes into shorts and a tank top, tosses the groceries in the fridge and pours two glasses of lemonade with ice. It's hot out.

"Tim," she calls gently from the doorway.

He opens his eyes slowly and blinks at her. Drugs, she thinks and grins. She'd never have made it this far without waking him otherwise.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says drowsily.

She passes him a glass. He takes it and looks at it.

"This isn't beer."

"Oh my God, really?" she mocks him. "Silly me. What was the point of all that education if I can't even tell the difference between beer and lemonade?"

"Thank you," he drawls. "Especially appreciate the sarcasm on the side."

"You started it." She leans over and kisses him. "Aren't you hot?" she asks, settling into her chair, looking sideways at him hunkered down in a hoodie.

"I am perfectly comfortable."

"Toby called at lunch to see how you're doing. He's awesome. We should adopt him."

"We'd have to get married first," Tim replies, then his face contorts and he tries to will the words back out of the air.

Miljana continues, oblivious to his turmoil. "I don't think he needs parents. I was thinking more… Oh, my God," she laughs when she turns to look at him. "The expression on your face. It's an emotional smorgasbord, a veritable buffet."

"Stop it," he scolds. "Stop laughing."

She laughs harder.

He rolls his eyes. "For fuck's sake."

"Tim," she grins, "you weren't seriously proposing?"

"What if I was? You'd feel bad right now," he replies.

"You're on drugs. Really, if I said yes, I'd be constantly worried that you weren't in your right mind and didn't mean it."

"Well I wasn't, serious I mean. Besides I'd be too worried that you were feeling sorry for me right now and would say yes out of pity."

"Pity? You're hardly pitiable. Pathetic maybe."

"There's a difference?" he questions.

"It's subtle."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"That's two."

"Fuck off. You're not allowed to play my game."

"Three. You only say ' _fuck_ ' when I've hit a sensitive spot," she grins at him, then pauses and considers. "You've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting married."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Four. Those drugs must really be affecting you. You're usually quicker than this."

"Fuck off."

"Five."

"Shit."

"Does that count?" she wonders aloud.

He glares at her, his lips tightly shut. She giggles.

"Tell you what," she says, reaching over inside his hood and gently tracing his jawline, the mirth gone. "When you're running your ten miles again, and I can hear the phone ring without having an anxiety attack, we should talk about it."

He thinks maybe that's not a bad idea.

* * *

"I learned something," Tim says out of the blue, "second or third deployment, I don't remember exactly. It wasn't like a eureka moment or anything. It kind of snuck up on me."

Raylan looks over at him. He's come to the house to watch some baseball and see how Tim's doing now that he's back at home. He's pale and thin and he moves slowly and he's wearing way too many layers for a hot Kentucky day and now he's getting philosophical. It's the last bit that worries Raylan most.

Tim is on a hefty dose of painkillers and he's starting to drift while he's waiting for his next sentence to form. Raylan throws out a tether and pulls him back in.

"What did you learn, buddy? Not to get sand in your underwear?"

Tim grins. It starts in his eyes and moves sloth-like down his face, curling up lop-sided. Raylan can't get used to lethargic Tim.

"We didn't bother much with underwear."

"Too much information."

The grin gets more enthusiastic.

"No, it was about the big picture," Tim continues. "I figured it out, that I wasn't there to play the endgame, to close out the deal. All I could do was get through the next ten minutes and get my buddy through it with me. There is no endgame, no grand finale where someone wins and someone loses." He nods towards the TV. "No ninth inning. That's just bullshit. The generals and the politicians, they can all plan and talk about it, but it doesn't exist. It'll never be there. You just move vaguely in a direction, you know?"

Raylan stares at him. He wonders how much of this conversation is Tim down the rabbit hole. On the other hand, if he lets himself follow, move vaguely in the direction, he can see a shadow of something.

"Once I realized that I couldn't ever control the outcome, it was a bit easier. I was satisfied with just getting through the day," Tim concludes, "and more, getting my buddies through the day. It'd get bad when I'd forget."

"Tim, are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Lucy van Pelt," Tim says and closes his eyes for a moment. "It'll cost you a nickel."

Raylan creases his forehead, not getting the reference.

"What?"

"Nevermind," Tim mumbles.

"I've got a Yogi Berra quote for you, Tim," offers Raylan. " _You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you are going because you might not get there_."

"That's exactly my point," Tim grins, opening his eyes again. "That man was a Zen master."

Raylan finishes his beer and goes for another one. When he sits back down on the couch he looks over at Tim and frowns.

"Is that why you covered Toby?" Raylan asks. "Getting your buddy through the day? He was pretty upset about that. He told me it should have been the other way around but his reflexes aren't what they used to be."

Tim pulls a Tim, tilts his head and cracks a grin to the wry side of sad.

"Jesus, I couldn't have lived with myself if something happened to Toby. Ducatel getting off free wouldn't have bothered me half as much."

Raylan is on his fourth beer and they're in the eighth inning. Rangers and White Sox, it's a close game and the Sox need a win to break a bad losing streak. The players are all tense, you can see it. A pitcher once said, Raylan can't remember who, that baseball is not real life, baseball is a game. _No money in your pocket and kids to feed, that's real life_ , he'd said.

* * *


End file.
